Page 65 of Tiki Beach
The lights in Ilima’s house eventually went dark as we sat there, discussing the plans for the garden and our own future within this community that had become home in ways I never expected.
“This is home,” Keone said, as we finally rose to go inside, the word carrying meanings beyond the physical cottage we shared. “And I’m glad you’re with me.”
“You read my mind,” I said, following him through the door. “And I like that.”
18
THREE MONTHS LATER:
The morning air carried the sweet perfume of plumeria blossoms mingled with the darker notes of freshly turned earth. Mount Haleakala stood in majestic silence against the cloudless blue sky, its massive presence watching over the ceremony like a benevolent ancestor. The ocean stretched beyond the grounds in an impossible palette of blues: cerulean near the shore gradually deepening to cobalt and finally indigo at the horizon, where it met the sky in a seamless transition stitched together by clouds.
Three months had passed since Kawika’s confession and the subsequent legal proceedings that had transformed Hana-Ohia’s political landscape. Today, the land upon which the Heritage Garden would soon grow hummed with anticipation as community members gathered for the official groundbreaking ceremony.
White folding chairs arranged in neat rows faced a simple wooden platform decorated with ti leaves and colorful origami cranes—hundreds of them, folded by schoolchildren, seniors at the community center, and others who had embraced Pearl’s invitation to contribute to the ceremony. The paper birds caught the morning light, their vibrant colors dancing in the gentle breeze that swept in from the ocean.
I stood near the back of the seating area, watching as Elle, bright as a cardinal in a fitted red sheath dress, directed the final arrangements with characteristic precision. Elle had thrown herself into coordinating the groundbreaking with the same enthusiasm she brought to all her events, transforming what might have been a simple ceremony into a meaningful celebration.
“Elle’s really outdone herself this time,” Keone observed, appearing at my side with two cups of the lilikoi punch being served at a refreshment table. He was splendid in a bronze-toned silk aloha shirt that brought out the gold in his skin and eyes. He handed me one of the cups, his fingers brushing mine in a casual toast.
“She’s been planning this one for months, and there were a lot of bosses to please,” I said, sipping the drink. The unique sweet-tart flavor of passion fruit burst across my tongue, perfectly balanced with a hint of ginger. “I think she’s revised the seating chart at least four times to ensure the best possible ‘energy flow’—her words, not mine.”
“I notice the Red Hat Society has prime positioning,” Keone nodded toward the vibrant splash of purple and red in the front rows. Aunt Fae, naturally, had added her own flourish to the standard ensemble—her red fedora sported a wire contraption from which a cascade of tiny origami cranes bobbed with every movement of her head.
“Elle’s smart enough to know that community power brokers require strategic placement. Edith, for instance.” I gestured with my cup. “And your mom.”
The diminutive lawyer had pride of place with a chair beside the podium on one side, and Ilima Kaihale, the new mayor, on the other. None of those dignitaries had taken their seats yet; only Artie Pahinui occupied the wooden platform at the moment, rocking gently to and fro on his chair and keeping the beat with a bare brown foot as he played an intricate slack-key melody that welcomed us.
A gentle hush fell over the gathering as Pearl trundled in her fancy wheelchair toward the ceremonial area with Lani and her nieces, Sandy and Windy Nakasone, trailing behind. For today’s occasion, Pearl had adorned her chair with flowing loops of lei in the garden project colors—jade green, soft yellow, and red. The Nakasone girls tossed plumeria down on the grassy aisle leading to the seats, a sweet touch.
Ilima walked beside Pearl, resplendent in a formal muumuu of deep blue, her mayoral sash gleaming against the fabric. Ilima had won the special election following Santos’s removal. Bringing up the rear of the little cavalcade was Edith Pepperwhite, smiling to the right and to the left, cradling a fancy scroll and large pair of scissors that would be part of the ceremony.
The crowd rose in spontaneous respect as Pearl navigated her wheelchair along the accessible path that led to the platform. Once on the platform, she activated the chair’s elevation mechanism, rising gracefully to a standing position—a moment she had practiced repeatedly for this occasion, determined to stand symbolically as she addressed the community.
Moved to see her there, surrounded by such dear friends and community, I grabbed Keone’s hand and squeezed it as we hurried to find our seats. The oleander poisoning had left lasting effects on her nervous system—but her mind was as sharp as ever, and her spirit seemed undaunted even after facing betrayal and near death.
I blinked back unexpected tears. The journey from her hospital bed to this moment had been filled with physical pain, emotional processing of Kawika’s betrayal, and exhausting legal proceedings that had required Pearl’s testimony on multiple occasions. Yet here she stood, embodying the resilience that had characterized her life.
“Welcome,” Pearl said. Everyone sat, including her entourage. “E komo mai.”
Her voice carried clearly across the bowl of open space. “Welcome to this special day that marks the conclusion of decades of concealment and the beginning of acknowledgment and healing through the Heritage Garden project.”
Pearl spoke of her family’s experience during internment, the subsequent struggles to reclaim their property and dignity, and her vision for a garden that would serve as both a memorial and a community gathering place. Edith got up next, unrolling her scroll to highlight the project’s design and timeline. Finally, Ilima made a fiery and passionate speech about truth, justice, and the Hawaiian way of aloha that left me patting my nonexistent pockets for tissues. Thankfully, Keone handed me a handkerchief. “Your mom is just getting started in politics,” I whispered. “Next stop, the governor’s mansion.”
Next up, Pearl snipped a scarlet ribbon staked around a small ohia lehua tree in a pot. Heads of families directly affected by the historical land seizures—Japanese-American families whose properties had been taken during internment, and descendants of Native Hawaiian families who had experienced earlier dispossession, all helped plant the tree, placing handfuls of soil around the its base. The ohia, positioned near the entrance, symbolized shared commitment to remembrance and reconciliation.
“This garden will tell many stories,” one elderly nisei man said, brushing the soil from the planting from his hands. “Some painful, some inspiring. All necessary.” Many others followed, reading poems, showing photos and a letter to family from the camps. The Nakasone girls each propped a sweet drawing against the fragile trunk of the sapling at the end. I smiled to see the grounds’ ancient gardener, Takahashi, standing by with a watering can to apply love to the little tree when the hoopla was over.
The crowd’s applause rippled across the grounds when the ceremony was over, replaced by the sound of distant waves and Artie’s guitar playing, this time accompanied by an ipu drum.
Guests moved out from the chairs and planting site to explore the flag-marked pathways that outlined the garden’s future layout, or to examine the architectural renderings displayed on easels near the refreshment area. The news van which had been filming focused in on Wendy Watanabe, a local reporter, holding forth.
I spotted Elle moving efficiently through the crowd, clipboard in hand. She caught my eye and flashed a quick thumbs-up before directing the catering staff on the dispersal of pupus being served.
Keone took my hand. “Let’s do a walk-through.” We wandered along the future pathways, stopping occasionally to study the small flags indicating where specific features would be installed. Careful planning was evident everywhere—accessible paths designed to accommodate Pearl and others with mobility challenges, seating areas positioned to capture both ocean views and mountain vistas, smaller spaces for contemplation, and bigger ones designated for educational gatherings.
“Pearl’s thought of everything,” I said as we paused by a marker indicating the future site of a Japanese-inspired stone garden. “Every detail has meaning.”
“Speaking of meaningful places,” Keone said, “there’s something I’d like to show you while everyone is distracted with the reception food.”
