Free Moloka'i by Alan Brennert Page B

left foot, with anesthesia.” He worked his way up to the spot on her thigh. “Red ringed tubercle on inside of right thigh, skin thick, anesthesia present. Genital development,” and here he put a gloved hand between her thighs, “appears to be normal.” He palpated her groin, and Rachel flinched.
    “That hurts!”
    “Skin of the groin shows some sensitivity,” he noted, otherwise ignoring her discomfort; Rachel jerked away.
    “Stop it!” she yelled.
    “Please stand still,” the doctor responded curtly, reaching again for her groin. Angrily, Rachel reached for his groin—grabbed and squeezed, as he had done to her.
    The doctor howled so vigorously that Rachel immediately let go and jumped back a good two feet. He doubled over in exquisite distress, and the nurse, deciding on her own initiative that the examination was over, threw Rachel’s gown over her and hastened her out of the room.
    She was taken back to the dormitory and never heard another thing about the incident, but less than a month later her parents received a terse letter in the mail:
BOARD OF HEALTH
November 10, 1893
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kalama:
You are advised that at a regular meeting of the Board of Health, held on November 7, 1893, after a full assessment of your daughter’s records it was decided that continued treatment is no longer of any benefit to her, and voted that she be transferred to the Leprosarium on Molokai .
She is to be transported by steamer SS Mokolii , leaving at 5 P.M. , November 30, 1893 .
By direction of the President and the Executive Officer, Board of Health ,
William O. Smith
    Henry and Dorothy went at once to see the head administrator at Kalihi; but though he grudgingly agreed to postpone Rachel’s transfer until after Christmas, he coldly insisted she must and would be transferred to Moloka'i. Whether it was true that the treatments were ineffective, or whether Rachel was being punished for troublesome behavior, they couldn’t tell; all that was certain was that in less than two months’ time their little girl would be on her way to the open grave known as Kalaupapa.
    At home that night they argued as vociferously as ever. “Seven years old, she can’t go alone,” Dorothy said. “I’ll go with her; k kua her.”
    “You got three other kids to take care of,” Henry said. “I’ll go.”
    “And who’s gonna work, put food on the table?” Dorothy asked. “Ben and Kimo and Sarah, they’re gonna go hungry ’cause their papa’s gone to Moloka'i?”
    In the end, the bleak truth was that neither of them could go, even if the government allowed it, which, as Ko'olau could have told them, increasingly it did not. The only consolation—more consolation than many a family had—was that Pono was already on Moloka'i. His heart breaking, Henry wrote his brother to ask if he would take care of Rachel.
    Henry barely slept that week. He walked the house at night, looking at Rachel’s dolls, her toys—knowing that he would never see his daughter here, in this house, ever again. He wept inconsolably, mourning a girl still alive, wishing that his skin would erupt in hideous sores so that he might yet accompany her to Moloka'i. He loved all his children, but now he was forced to admit to himself that he loved Rachel best, and that rended his heart even more.
    The next day they went to see her, Rachel and her parents separated as ever by the wire mesh barrier as a guard stood outside, and Henry told her the truth.
    “I’m so sorry, baby,” he said. “The Board of Health says you gotta go to Kalaupapa.”
    Rachel stared at him, not quite comprehending.
    “Are you . . . coming with me?” she asked.
    Henry wanted to die. “No, baby, I can’t.”
    Rachel’s eyes went fearfully to her mother. “Mama? Will you go with me?”
    Fighting back tears, unable to speak, Dorothy shook her head.
    “You said I was gonna stay here till I was cured, then go home!” Rachel accused, and her father sagged in his seat, feeling