At a closer glance, I notice Daniel is a young man and looks to be in his mid-twenties. He sure is handsome in those navy-blue pleated pressed slacks and white button-down dress shirt. There isn’t one dark strand of hair out of place or a flaw within his smooth complexion. His smile encompasses a sense of weakness, or discomfort, but he appears happy to be here. I can read a person best by the appearance in their eyes though, and I see a brilliant reflection from the sun, highlighting an aura of warmth. It’s easy to tell he’s a pleasant fellow. Life has clearly graced me with so many wonderful people, so I’m not at all surprised.
Daniel leans over and places a kiss on my cheek. “Good morning, Gran, how are you feeling today?”
Gran? Daniel. He doesn’t resemble my granddaughter, Makena, and she’s the only one entitled to call me Gran. My hands tighten around my notebook as I strain to understand why this man is referring to me as his grandmother. The emptiness in my mind pains my heart. Surely, the answer must be in my head—somewhere.
What’s worse is it seems I’m making Daniel uncomfortable as he appears to be searching for the guest chair. He spots the wrought-iron seat in the corner and carries it closer to me. After a moment of scratching at his cheek and adjusting his collar, he sits down and folds his hands, cupping them over his knees while leaning into his elbows.
“I’m Makena’s husband.” A nervous smile plays along the dimples of his cheeks.Makena got married? She’s such a young girl still.“She’s busy teaching all those classes at the university. Otherwise, she’d be here with me now, but she’ll be by later, of course.”
A professor. My Makena is a professor, yet no one thought to tell me.
“What does she teach, may I ask?”
Daniel fiddles with his wedding band, proof of marriage. I’m sure the memory will come back to me.
“Political Science,” he says before clearing his throat.
I can’t help the chuckle piping through my lungs.A girl who takes after my heart—my granddaughter is a professor of Political Science.The DNA in this family must run strong. “How admirable,” I say, releasing a quiet sigh. “Well, what can I do for you, Daniel?” I have a habit of repeating names when I speak, so it sticks to the front of my mind while we’re together.
“Hmm,” he says, shifting in his seat. “I suppose my answer isn’t quite that simple, but I’m hoping you might be interested in helping with an idea I have. I’m a journalist for the Tribune—the newspaper.”
His pause after telling me what he does for a living leaves me wondering if he’s waiting for a response. “That is lovely,” I say.
Daniel smiles, but the curves along the sides of his lips flatten after a swift second. “Yes, but I’m here to ask you for your help with a piece I’m writing.”
It’s difficult to remember something as simple as my last name these days, so I’m not sure how I can benefit this young man, but at the very least, I will try my best. He’s too polite to turn away. “What would you need from me, Daniel?”
He stretches his fingers out and grips his hands around his notepad then exhales a lungful of air. “This coming December marks the seventy-fifth anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.”
Oh, my sweet Pearl.
As if an automatic response, I utter: “‘A date which will live in infamy,’ Roosevelt declared. He was right, wasn’t he?” My heart quivers in reminiscence of hearing those words delivered through the radio. Of course, I didn’t need to hear the announcement to comprehend the atrocity our country was experiencing.
“He was most certainly correct,” Daniel agrees.
My short-term memory is for the birds, but my long-term memories—or most of them, are still crystal clear. “Seventy-five years,” I repeat. It seems incomprehensible that so much time has passed in a blink of an eye.
Daniel drops his shoulders a touch and straightens his posture as if something I said is riveting. “I know you have some trouble with your memory, but I was wondering if you might recall a story to share with the Tribune readers?”
I would love nothing more than to tell Daniel my mind is overflowing with vivid recollections and I’m just slow at piecing them together, but I still don’t recognize the poor man and I’m staring at him with such intensity, trying my best to unscramble my thoughts.
“Breakfast is here,” Keiki announces as she carries a tray of fruit and pastries out onto the terrace. “Is Daniel going to be accompanying us this morning?”
The hollow feeling in my head is like a numbness—one that terrifies me some days. “Yes, please, Daniel, stay and join us for breakfast.” As the words spill from my mouth, a cloud stirs through the sky, pulling my attention toward the ocean’s horizon. “Are we expecting showers today?” I ask.
“Not that I’m aware,” Keiki responds.
“The clouds appear different, don’t they?”Odd clouds have never been a good prediction of upcoming events.
From the corner of my eye, I spot the exchange of a concerning expression between Keiki and Daniel. I recognize their silent analysis. It’s one that suggeststhis poor elderly woman is losing a battle with the enemy that’s stealing her mind.Young people assume the worst about the older generation. I’m not bothered by their presumptions since I can tell them with certainty that there is no reason to worry about me. But it’s impossible to explain a lifetime's worth of rationale to those who haven’t lived through what I have.
2
July 1941
There’ssomething to say about being awake before the alarms rattle through the house. The silence embraces me with comfort and a moment to sneak in a cup of coffee before the hustle and bustle of the day begins. While watching the dribbles and droplets of deep brown liquid seep from the filter into the glass flask, my mouth waters, but staring at the hypnotic sight won’t speed up the process.
The scent of French coffee grinds follows me to the front door as I release the bolted locks to welcome in the humid air, rich with blends of dew-covered blossoms. No one is outside just yet. It’s still early, but the newspaper is where it is every morning, neatly rolled into a tight tube and bound with a rubber band. At least I know the paperboy is awake before I am. I pinch one end of the rolled print, avoiding the horrible ink stains I attract most days, and hold it out in front of me like a dirty sock as I close myself back into the house.
