Free The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings

much stocked to get us through the next ten years.
    “They’ve got some good candy, I bet,” Dr. Johnston says. He takes a plastic hospital card out of his coat. “Here. Use this.” His mood seems upbeat, positively optimistic.
    “I’m full,” she says and sits down. “I’ll stay here. I want to hear about Mom.”
    Dr. Johnston makes eye contact with me. He suddenly seems stunned and exhausted. His shoulders are rounded, and his chart hangs by his side—it almost seems as though he’s going to drop it.
    I look at him and slowly shake my head. Scottie sits on the chair with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, waiting.
    “Well, then.” He straightens his posture. “As you know, her scores have been okay, but they have gotten lower this week. Some very low-scoring individuals have achieved excellent recoveries, just as higher-scoring patients sometimes show no improvement at all, but in this case, we…we—”
    “Scottie. I need to talk to Dr. Johnston alone.”
    “No, thank you,” she says.
    “Well, we should have a greater indication later as to…how much longer…she’ll be in this unit at this point in time,” he says.
    “So it’s good, then?” Scottie says.
    “What’s good to know is that if a patient in a coma survives the first seven to ten days following the injury to the brain, then long-term survival can be expected, but—”
    “Mom has been here longer than that! Way longer than seven.”
    “No, Scottie,” I say.
    “She can survive, but the quality of that survival will be poor,” the doctor says.
    “She won’t be able to do the things she could once do,” I say. I look at Dr. Johnston to see if I’m right. “No motorcycles. No boats.”
    “Then she won’t get hurt,” Scottie says.
    “Let’s go, sport. Let’s go to the beach.”
    I look at Dr. Johnston, his unruly eyebrows, his grooved and spotted hands. I remember him at our many gatherings in Hanalei, the families getting together for Christmas break in the old plantation homes with their creaky floors and poor lighting, mosquito nets and ghosts. Dr. J’s face was hidden most of the time behind a cowboy hat, and he’d spend the days fishing or playing guitar, something my father couldn’t do; it lured us kids in, placated us. My dad would always go fishing out in the deep sea, one time bringing in a marlin, its swordlike nose pointing like an accusation. Most of the time he’d bring in tuna, and in a reversal of roles, the men would clutter the kitchen, fussing over sauces and getting the barbecue to the perfect temperature.
    I’m wondering if he’s remembering these times as well, me as a young boy watching openmouthed as he strummed his guitar. This must be hard for him and strange. He has known me since I was one hour old, raw and slippery. He writes something down on his chart. I have the urge to put my arms around him and tell him I don’t know how to do any of this and to help me. Tell me exactly what’s going to happen. Play me a song. Get me out of here.
    “So, Mom’s okay,” Scottie says. Dr. Johnston doesn’t say anything, and I still don’t know what’s going on except that it’s something unfavorable. Scottie gathers her things, and when she is turned away, he puts his hand on my back. His stoic expression frightens me.
    “Can you come back later?” he asks. “We need to talk privately.”
    “Of course.”
    He walks out of the room, and when he turns to walk down the hall, I can see his profile, which looks determined and almost angry.
    “Beach!” Scottie says, walking out of the room, not even glancing at her mother. I silently apologize to my wife for leaving her here, for her low scores, and for not knowing what they mean, for going to the beach and possibly enjoying ourselves. Will she be paralyzed? Will she not know the ABCs? I kiss her on the forehead and tell her I’ll take care of her. Whatever happens, I will be there for her. I tell her I love her, because I