My Kind of Town
A goddess’ work
>> Queen's Medical Center
A goddess' work is never done. Especially when you're Ho'ola, goddess of life. And more so lately with the Ah Sun clan. Not that she played favorites. But the Ah Suns, through the tutus of both Grace Kealoha Ah Sun and her husband Sheets, kept alive the story of Ho'ola that so many Hawaiians had forgotten. So after checking on Quinn Ah Sun, finding that the young cop's gunshot wound was healing nicely and leaving her healing scent of eucalyptus and sea spray lingering in his room, she decided to give Sheets Ah Sun another try.
He'd ignored her when she visited his son Lance and helped lead him out of his coma. Some people couldn't see her, or refused to. But Sheets deserved one more chance. Yes, Ho'ola knew that he'd taken a life. But she also knew that he had shown his love for his wife and her child in ways that 99.999 percent of the men in the world never could. That counted too.
Ho'ola was right. Sheets needed help, as much for his recent heart attack as for his heavy heart. At that moment, as she moved down the hallway like slow water over smooth stones, Sheets was hooked up to various monitors in his bed, mentally beating himself up for all the misjudgments of his life.
Pausing outside his room, Ho'ola saw Grace and her daughter Lily talking by the nursing station. She'd have to be quick here, they'd be needing her too. She walked through the door and it's fortunate Sheets didn't suffer another coronary event. Because suddenly standing right there in front of him was a very large, very brown, very naked lady.
"M ... my ... my wife ..." he stammered. "Sh ... she'll be right back."
"I know," Ho'ola said. "I just saw Grace."
Her voice, he noted, rang like sacred music, and somehow he started to feel better.
"Don't you recognize me, Shitsuru Ah Sun?"
She was the most beautiful, most alluring woman he had ever seen, not to mention the biggest. He did not recognize her. "Sorry."
"Yes, I know, you're sorry for many things, and that is good."
"Who are you?"
"Your tutu told you my name."
She saw him searching dim memories. "Ho'ola? You're real?"
"It appears so." She leaned down and breathed the breath of life on his face. It was cool and smelled of eucalyptus and sea spray. He inhaled deeply.
"Your mistakes are behind you, leave them there. But you did many good things too. The rightest thing you ever did, staying with your wife and raising her daughter, no man has greater love than this. It is your future."
And she was gone.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be e-mailed at firstname.lastname@example.org