Prints in the Sand: My Journey with Nanea

After we’re done dancing, Mrs. Mitchell calls for the lights to go out for blackout, even though it’s still early. But Nanea doesn’t complain, and I follow her around the house as she turns off every light switch and lamp and covers every window. The house turns hot and airless. Nanea explains that their block’s warden, Mr. Lopez, is notoriously strict and will write up a ticket over even the faintest sliver of light showing outside, since enemy planes could use it to spot a target.

The idea sends a shiver through me. Catching my expression, Nanea gently asks if the blackouts scare me. I just nod, since my voice seems to have gone missing somewhere I can’t find it. Nanea nods her head and says she doesn’t like them either. So she made a safe spot.

Nanea guides me to a cramped closet she’s converted into her own hideaway, cushioned with pillows, stacked with books, and glowing from a handmade lantern that can hold a single candle. A stack of Nancy Drew books sits near her feet, and I can’t help grinning; it’s like discovering a twin sister, even though I had to step back in time to find her.

After we’ve read for a bit, Nanea suggests we check on Tutu and Tutu Kane before turning in, worried they might have left without saying goodbye. We leave Nanea’s lit hideaway to go back to the dark living room. In the darkness, our eyes haven’t yet adjusted, and she accidentally steps on my foot. We giggle together, but are interrupted by Mrs. Mitchell saying that Tutu and Tutu Kane are cutting it close. They barely have enough time to make it home before curfew. I ask them what they mean by curfew. Nanea tells me that once nine o’clock hits, nobody, kids included, can be out on the streets without a special pass, not since the war began. You can be arrested.

Nanea asks, if Tutu and Tutu Kane can stay overnight. Mrs. Mitchell says they may have to. It takes a couple minutes to decide where everyone is sleeping, but eventually I follow Nanea into her bedroom as her grandparents shuffle into Mary Lou’s room. Mary Lou will sleep in the living room.

Nanea says the room used to be David’s, but he said she could use it while he was gone. She hasn’t changed anything since he left. She likes how it still smells like him. I get it completely. I confess that I smuggled one of Dad’s old shirts out of the laundry, and that I wrapped it around my pillow and still sleep with it every night.

For a moment, Nanea says nothing. When she finally does speak, she says she likes that I did that. In fact, there’s probably an old smelly shirt of David’s around here somewhere, too. That makes us both laugh. We don’t say anything more, but I know that when it comes to missing someone, my new friend knows exactly how I feel.

A knock on the door rouses us the next morning, and I’m halfway through begging for five more minutes before remembering this isn’t my own house. Nanea and I bolt upright at the same instant. The first words out of Nanea’s mouth are “Portuguese sausage.”

Minutes later, we’re all packed around the breakfast table with Nanea’s grandparents and her father, who’s just gotten home from his overnight shift. Mr. Mitchell smiles as Nanea introduces us, and then turns to Nanea and asks how his sunshine is doing. It surprises me that Nanea’s father has red hair and blue eyes and looks nothing like her, but the moment she throws her arms around his neck and squeezes, I recognize that warmth right away. It makes me feel a small ache for my father.

The sausage looks nothing like the links I’m used to. It’s more of a small, spicy patty, and it’s fantastic. When Tutu Kane reaches for a second helping of butter, Tutu swats his hand away and reminds him he shouldn’t take too much. Mrs. Mitchell says it’s just fine that he takes it. He brought it, after all. It’s a treat to have real butter, instead of oleomargarine.

At that moment, Mary Lou dances into the kitchen belting out a little song about oleomargarine. Apparently, it’s made with yellow food coloring to look like real butter. Blech. Nanea giggles until Mrs. Mitchell fixes her sister with a look, pointing out that Hawaii isn’t hit by the same shortages as the mainland. We should be grateful. But Mr. Mitchell just winks at his daughters and slides some of the real butter onto his plate. Suddenly, I feel a craving for butter, too. I had never thought of butter as a special treat before. But it sure sounds better than oleomargarine.

Mrs. Mitchell holds up a lumpy, yellow-green fruit I’ve never seen before and asks if I want some papaya. Mom has been trying to get me to try new foods, but I’ve been holding out. Nanea says I just need to try it with fresh lemon juice.

Mrs. Mitchell slices the papaya open and scoops out the seeds. She gives half to Nanea, and half to me. Nanea demonstrates squeezing fresh lemon over the top, and I copy her. Everyone watches as I take my first bite, and the burst of sweetness catches me off guard. Finally, I flash Nanea a thumbs-up.

Tutu Kane winks and says it’s good to try new things. Nanea chips in that I could try hula. I could come to lessons with her. Tutu teaches them Saturday mornings.

The papaya sticks in my throat. Swaying beside Nanea in her own living room is one thing. Dancing in broad daylight, with other people watching, feels completely different. Tutu says, watching me, that maybe Nanea can teach me at home today. Nanea nods. We can make up our own dance. It’d be fun.

Spending more time with Nanea sounds great, but I’m still not sure I can face dancing in front of her. Nanea can sense my hesitation, because she says that maybe I’d prefer gardening. She’s been helping a neighbor in her Victory Garden. I can help, too.