0. Prologue: a missing key

This is the first installment of Misfortune Cookie

Yerp, that me, looking like a beaut. Mom, on the other hand…circa 1973

Mom always neglected to leave the key behind. In her defense, she’d eventually come home, and in ours, we wanted in – not this hanging about in the Hawaiian sun, holding our bladders, hungry, thirsty, bored. It’s possible she didn’t trust me, or Larry even though I was eight and my brother five.

Although, our front yard was pleasant and private, surrounded by a tall rock wall, tropical foliage on one side, and a light brown fence in the front. Mom planted her papaya trees, basil, chili pepper plants, and other herbs for her Thai food. Nobody used the lawn unless you count the time she dug a hole and threw all of her boyfriend’s stuff in it.

After we walked home from Mililani Waena Elementary School, we’d sometimes find a canary in a cage sitting on the patio table. Larry would try to play with it. The first time this happened, I noticed a big bag of bird feed sitting on the floor by the garage door. I say the first time because it’s difficult to know how many birds we set free.

I watched him raise the cage door.

“Uhhh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I said in my big sister's voice.

He’d cautiously extend his hand through the little opening. Easy. Ok, now. Then he’d grab the bird. It would flutter, then escape from his hand, flapping around the cage before it flew out the door.

We stared at the empty cage.

Another time Mom left a dog in the front yard, this was a step up from birds in cages, but the whippersnapper kept barking at us, so we stayed away, willing for her to hurry up and come home. Thankfully, she took the dog back to her friends as none of us would go near it.

But whether it was a surprise-your-kids-with-a-pet day, or not, Larry always had to use the facilities, another reason to be able to get into the house. Our house. As three and half years his senior, I told him to hold it, but then using the front lawn became part of his after school special. Mine was trying to figure out where she had hidden the key. Because after you walk home from school, and the house is locked, you figure the key’s around here somewhere, right?

I looked under the rubber door mat. I checked the front door, just in case. The kitchen sliding glass doors were securely shut, but even if they had been left unlocked, the cut-off broom handle on the inside perpendicular to the door prevented thieves and latchkey kids from opening the glass forcefully.

There was no way in along the footpath on the left side. It was where I had once watched gecko eggs hatch in the pores of the lava rock wall that separated us from the road. The sliding doors in the back were also locked. Occasionally, foot traffic walked by on the stairs behind us, so maybe this is why we never used the back yard area, all concrete except for the tall palms and plants along the edges.

At this point, I wasn’t sure if I was happy that our house was difficult to break in, or disgusted that I couldn’t do it.

It’s possible she forgot. Whenever we heard the automatic garage door opening, signaling her return, we stood up like trained soldiers, and waited for her to pull in, park the car, and open the door.

“Mommm! You forgot the key again!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Blah, blah, blah. Parents are always sorry, always right, making promises they can’t remember, and you know what? It hurts. She loved to preach to us to not trust anyone, so I certainly wasn’t going to trust that she didn’t forget on purpose.

But when we had to wait, we sat between the kitchen glass door and the garage on our white painted wrought iron chairs on AstroTurf. We didn’t do homework, or kick a ball around, or “make the best of it”. Instead, we did what all kids did during that time, we did nothing. No smart phones to scroll the time away. No pineapples to pick, no sugar cane to burn, or coconut trees to climb. No distractions from our grumbling bellies, Kool-Aid free throats, and full bladders.

We might have dozed off. We probably dozed off.

On one fine day, I grew impatient with our forgetful leader. Maybe I had watched too many episodes of Gilligan's Island, Little Rascals, or Leave It To Beaver. I was getting in. I no longer wanted to be the victim of a missed opportunity. Keys were for normal people. I stood up to assess our beige home for a closer look.

Houses in Hawaii characteristically have frosted-glass horizontal window slats, or jalousie windows. This was infinitely better than what the missionaries built–tiny windows to keep the heat in, just like they had back home in much colder climates.

To the left of our front door were two windows for the laundry room. When those window slats were opened slightly, I could push them all the way open and wiggle the glass slats backwards and out. I used a chair to stand on because the windows were out of my reach.

It was tiring work, but no one could see me since we were surrounded by vegetation, a rock wall, and fence.

You had to be careful not to break the glass, and the glass grated against its aluminum supports. Thankfully, the glass was thick enough, and I never broke a glass. Once I had freed the slats, I stepped down off the chair, and leaned them against the house, and repeated the action until I had created enough of an opening.

Then I shimmied and squeezed through and landed onto the washer and dryer. It wasn’t always a pretty landing. A laundry basket sitting on top of the washer or a stack of folded towels would get in the way. But it didn’t matter. I was in. I let out a victory whoop.

Turns out, I didn’t need the key. But I still needed Mom, obviously. She provided the home. Home is where she is. It’s just sometimes, I’d have to work a little harder to get through the front door.