The way the therapist looks makes me question her credentials.
Looks more like a runway model than a therapist. Young, thin, layers of makeup, frosted edges, designer reading glasses; I could go on, but you get it. Her diploma and license sit framed on the wall above her desk. Her office resembles an oversized backstage dressing room. I'm not sure how that's conducive to a therapy session, but it's more for her than for her patients."I know it's a bit much, but it reminds me of a very happy place from back in my younger days," she begins to confirm my suspicions. "It helps me relax and listen. So, anywhere you want to start, please."
"My family is worried because I have a pile of clothes that don't belong to me, and it's taking up space in the living room closet," I begin. "I haven't gotten rid of it, or have done anything with it, but it keeps accumulating."
"By accumulating, you mean you've just been piling your clothes in the living room closet and not washing them?" She asked in that way young people speak now, framing everything as a question.
"No, not like that," I shook my head. How would I explain this to her?
She looked a bit confused, not hiding her inability to understand my statement. "Weeelll, then how?"
"It's not my clothes. It's clothes from other people." I confirmed.
She scooted back in her chair and sat up straight. "Like from Goodwill of the Salvation Army?"
"No, just other regular people," I replied, but I saw very quickly that I had to reassure her. "Living people, by the way, nothing weird like what somebody would normally think."
"Ok, so, why?" She asked. Her facial expression told me that she was interested in the progress of my story. "I mean, why has it become a problem for your family?"
"I can only speak for my family," I adjusted myself in the high stool chair. "When someone in my family passed away, all of their intimate items were burned. Things they handled all the time, things that were close to them. That included their clothing as well. For example," I pointed to the top she was wearing. "If that's your favorite top that you wear all the time, and you pass away? That gets burned because all of your mana is in it. Everything about you, the essence of YOU, is in it. That means if someone who is not of our bloodline wears it, they might get sick because your top doesn't belong to them. Worse, is if someone gets a hold of your favorite top, they can use it to put a curse on you."
"Curses, now c'mon," she gave me the same maternal look my mother always gave me when she thought I was weaving a tall tale.
"I know, right? The power of suggestion, but that's the problem my family has with what I'm doing," I gave it a pause, waiting for her to pick up on the clue.
"You're going to curse the owners of the clothes you have?" She leaned forward, her expression one of intrigue and concern.
"Close," I said. "You're almost there."
"No, I think that's it, right? It's the people, the clothes belonging to them that you're going to curse?" She insisted with all of her education behind her.
"Right, but what people?" I felt myself smiling because for a second, I may have been smarter than she was. The pause was worth watching as she ruminated on the question, the circumstances, and then the realization. Her facial expression changed when the answer came to her, but it wasn't an expression of eureka, but one of dark dread. She physically recoiled in her chair, then got up and walked toward the door of her office.
"I think you should leave now before I call the police," she reached into her small shoulder bag and removed a gun. "Now please, I don't want to have to use this, but I will if you don't leave right now."
"You won't be able to use that gun," I told her while remaining seated.
"You're cursing your own family members by using their clothes," she stated without hesitation. "I know who you are. How could you do that to family?"
"My uncles and aunty love your social media, they follow you loyaly. They especially liked you when you talked about how your kupūna were from the same places where they grew up, my uncles and aunties, that is." I began. "The thing about a person like you is that once you have everything you want, it's not enough. You end up wanting more. That parcel of land in Kalaoa was just eleven acres that could have been shared and divided up evenly between the kupūna whose ohana had lived there since antiquity. They were all 'ohana to you, to me, to my uncles and aunt. You went behind their backs and brokered a deal for $30 million for eleven acres, with no care as to what was going to happen to your elders, your ohana. In case you do happen to care, they're all in hospice toward the end of their lives. They're going to die in hospice, not on the lepo of their ancestors. However, you wanted a mini shopping mall that would include your boutique and your therapist's office. As much as my uncles and aunt love you, they were sad when they found out about what you did, and even more sad about the way this had to be handled."
"Your uncles and aunt, that's the family you're talking about?" She was literally shaking in her boots. "Then what about the clothes?"
"Like I said, they're sad about the way this has to be handled," I told her while readjusting myself on the high stool.
The horror on her face turned her complexion white, and even her lips turned blue. "It's my clothes."
She blinked and pointed the gun at me. Even before she could take off the safety, I whispered the words into my closed fist and blew my breath into it." 'Ūke'e."
Like a spear, the black smoke darted straight at the young therapist, twisting and snapping her jaw to one side; the sound of the bone cracking created a sharp reverberation that bounced off her office walls.
"Haki ke kuamo'o," I whispered again, this time blowing the spear like smoke to her spine, which severed her body in twain. She crumbled to her nicely manicured Persian carpet in two halves. One toward the door, and one behind her chair. I felt a tinge of remorse. She could have been more; she could have done more with her influence and status to affect positive change. But when you put a gun in the hands of a child, someone's going to get hurt.
***
On the drive back to the Kamehameha Hotel, Uncle Ivan called. He was on speaker phone with Uncle Tiny and Aunty Rita. There was silence, which was understandable. They didn't know how to ask the question.
"It wasn't quick," I told them. "Olita suffered, and then it was over."
"Was her last name on her door and on the plaque on her desk, like how it is in her videos?"Aunty Rita asked with more sadness than disappointment. "Olita Kala'imainu'u?"
"No, aunty, it was just Olita K." I was as gentle as I could be.
"Meet us at Ohana Inn, around the corner," Uncle Tiny seemed to be the saddest of all. "We'll order for you, but if there's no pipikaula, do you want something else?"
"Extra poi," I replied.
"We're sorry you had to do this," Uncle Ivan chimed in. "This was solely our thing; we never meant to get you involved."
"You're my ohana, when you hurt, I hurt," I replied while taking the right turn down Ali'i Drive. "I'm almost there, I'm gonna valet park. See you folks there."
"Love you, nephew, mahalo for all that you do for us," Uncle Ivan hung up after that. He purposely didn't put us on FaceTime because he didn't want me to see them sad and heartbroken. It's one of those burdens you bear when it comes to ohana. You don't skimp, you don't complain; you just keep your mouth shut and get it done.
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