R
OSIE PULLED BACK THE SHEET AND STARED AT
A
NA’S BELLY
. S
HE
was huge, her skin stretched tight. She examined between her cousin’s legs where she had begun to dilate.
“Soon time. Doctor said bring you in tomorrow.”
Near noon Ana heard gravel crunch like things deep-frying, and looked out the window as a car drove up. Earlier in the week, her mother had arrived in Honolulu.
“She’s helping Niki finish footage of his film,” Rosie said. “At the Hope Institute for damaged kids. And of course, she’s here for you … to witness this event of childbirth.”
In the silence they watched Anahola stepping from her car, high heels sinking in the dirt, her hair exuberantly curling in humid air. Yet her uptilted head accented a certain pride of carriage.
“It seems so little to ask,” Rosie said. “She saved your husband’s life. She has saved all our lives, one way or the other.”
“I know that. I’m very grateful.”
Rosie turned to her. “What a meager little word.
Hila hila male!
For shame! We’re a clan of proud and headstrong women. Our emotions are
big
! Oh, cousin … open your heart. Break this pattern now. ‘
Oki
all the bitterness that eats each generation of the women in your family.”
She took Ana’s hand. “Let your daughter grow up knowing her grandmother. If you don’t, I promise she will make you pay.”
———
N
IKI SAT AT THE TABLE WITH THE FAMILY, AND NOW AND THEN HE
gazed at Anahola. Each time he met her, profound gratitude rendered him almost inarticulate. Yet, knowing her history with Ana, he felt concern. During the meal, she seemed almost shy, as if unsure of her welcome.
He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Your name is very beautiful.
Anahola
. Hourglass.”
Pua reached out and took Anahola’s hand, recalling her fiery temper when she first came to live with them, pregnant and cast out by her parents. Her beauty that had mesmerized the youngsters. Old aunties remembered how she had swum with little Ana clinging to her neck, teaching her to be alert for stingrays. And how, during
tsunami
alerts, she had tied Ana to her back and run up into the mountains.
While they talked Niki lowered his eyes, touched by how they were telling Anahola they remembered. Hours later, they were still reminiscing, when Ana appeared in the doorway, water cataracting down her legs.
“Her sack has broken!” Rosie stood. “No time for doctors. Someone fetch midwife, and chanters.”
“My God, it hurts,” Ana cried. “Make it stop hurting.”
“Stop? Girlie, it has just begun.”
Rosie steered her to her room while folks pushed the table to a corner. The floor was soaped and rinsed and sheets were spread, upon which
lauhala
mats were piled until they were knee high. When the time was right, Ana would squat on them to birth her child.
Youngsters ran for the old midwife while aunties gathered on the
lānai
, noting the shape of clouds, the flight of birds, the way trees bent and swayed. For these all might be
hō‘ailona
, omens that foretold the infant’s future. Soon the kitchen was fogged by boiling water through which children peered, having an eager, frightened time. Minutes passed slowly and very fast. Then Ana wobbled back into the living room.
“Labor pains begin for real. Now she must walk to and fro.”
She dragged her body in and out of rooms, leaning on the walls, her stomach appearing in a doorway, and then the rest of her. After a while she was given tea from the bark of the
hau
tree.
“Makes baby slippery, eases her passage through the narrow place.”
Every half hour Rosie laid her down to palpate her abdomen.
“It’s good to
hāhā
your belly, make sure baby’s in right position.”
Aunty Ginger, ever the quiet one, suddenly spoke out. “This going be a long birth. We need gather
pōhuehue
.”
Lopaka was dispatched to the sea to gather sixteen leaves of beach morning glory. He picked them swiftly, plucking the first half with the right hand as he prayed to
Kū
, god of medicine. Then he plucked the rest with his left hand, praying to
Hina
, goddess of medicine. The leaves must not be mixed up. Those he had plucked with the right were given to Ana to eat. Those plucked with the left were crushed and rubbed on her stomach.
She lay back chewing, praying the leaves would hasten birth. She chewed until leaves turned to saliva. The pain seemed never-ending. Then abruptly it subsided, and it was like walking through a cool, clear moment of a dawn.
Niki knelt beside her. Even children gathered, big-eyed and attentive. Only her mother kept her distance, lingering outside the room.
Suddenly Ana cried out. “My father! He will never know this child. Oh, I want to see him …”
Anahola turned away, her hands went to her face. Then old Ben walked out to the yard; they heard him grunting in the weeds. He came back carrying a hefty stone and put it down near Ana’s bed.
“Child. Here in this
pōhaku
is your papa.”
She bent forward, staring. Because stones had such
mana
for Hawaiians, she felt her father’s presence.
“Please. Bring him to me.”
And when they brought the stone, she held it tight against her belly, feeling its warmth from the sun.
“Now he can feel his grandchild’s beating heart. He will feel that heartbeat through eternity. She will remember
him
, and always be fond of him.”
The
pōhaku
was carefully passed from hand to hand so it would bear the imprint of each of this
‘ohana
. It would be buried beside the child’s placenta.
Her labor progressed. The chanters and midwife were attentive, but it was Rosie she reached out to. When spasms became intense, the midwife pressed down on her belly, and when they subsided she stepped back, and Rosie took her hand.
Out on the
lānai
, elders argued over who, as oldest living member of this family, should assist in the birth of Ana’s child. Pua pointed at one-armed Ben.
“You are ranking senior. It is your duty and your right.”
Ben spoke with the modesty of a man who knew he would always be
most beloved by the younger generations. For it was he who had delivered them, and loved them, and raised them to adulthood.
He lowered his head, his cheeks were wet. “Such richness in old age! I, who don’t deserve it. I am a simple man. But, if allowed, I will teach the child prayers, legends, genealogy, family etiquette, and customs. I will teach her even traditions of land ownership, and how to talk to people in trouble. I have learned much in life.”
Pua stood, hair floating round her like a shawl.
“It is decided. This
kupuna
, and his
mo‘opuna
, will be one. You will never go too far from one another. You will always be a two-hour paddle home. Henceforth, this child will look to you as
kumu
. Source of all family knowledge.”
A
S LABOR PANGS INCREASED
, A
NA WAS MOVED FROM HER BED TO
the living room. There she took a squatting position on the mats, and placed her arms round the midwife’s neck. The woman was so frail and old, she could not take the weight, and motioned Niki forward.
“Think yourself into a sturdy tree! Let her cling to you for strength.”
He faced his wife and locked her arms around his neck. Rosie moved behind her as her
ko‘o kua
, and sat, legs sprawled apart. With her arms encircling her, she pressed down on Ana’s stomach giving her support.
The midwife saw the pain about to convulse her.
‘ “Ume i ka hanu!”
Draw the breath!
Colors and edges of things blurred beyond the natural. Ana gasped and bent forward. The chanters moved close, wailing softly in Hawaiian.
“… Be patient, be patient. We are all here in watchful expectancy. Your husband who loves you is here, and so is your beloved Rosie who is holding you. And so your aunties and uncles who raised you, and your tender young cousins … And so your rightful mother is here, and your rightful father in the rock. They have gathered as the gods decreed … And so the gods are here, Kū and Hina, gods of medicine, and Hi‘iaka, Pele, and all the major and lesser gods. And everyone. And everything. Even the weather is here … The sun lying on her side, peeking through the window. The trade winds rippling the shades. All are in attendance just for you. You are not alone …”
———
S
CREAMING IN CHILDBIRTH WAS THOUGHT DISGRACEFUL, BUT NOW
she screamed, she howled. Men looked away in order to be able to stand the moment. Some stepped outside, urgently scolding their boar-hounds. Trying to transfer Ana’s pain, the midwife called for a recipient.
Gena pressed forward. “Give it to me. I will take her pain.”
The old woman closed her eyes and prayed, but nothing happened. Another hour passed.
As her labor began to reach its climax, the midwife instructed, “Push now. Push hard!”
She cursed to restore her courage, pushing to exhaustion. Finally, they knelt her forward on her knees so she could rest. They put her head down on the mat and sponged her neck and shoulders. In the doorway, her mother prayed. Ana turned and glimpsed her mother’s face. Decades had passed without her knowing her, and maybe this was a mourning for those stillborn years.
That’s what the child will be: a stillborn
.
She moaned and rocked back on her heels.
Then someone moved to the midwife. “Give me the pain,” Anahola whispered. “Give it to me. Please.”
Now she stood close, larger than life. Ana hung with her arms round Niki’s neck, watching as the midwife prayed. Her mother stood expectant, waiting for pain to strike her down, but nothing happened.
The old woman opened her eyes, pointing at Ana. “This pain wants
you
.”
Then something wrenched her with such force she momentarily blacked out. They bathed her neck and face again, bringing her to consciousness, then put her head down and let her rest upon her knees. Agony was all-consuming, but still no head appeared. She was pulled back into a squatting position while the midwife implored.
“Draw the breath! The breath!”
“No more,” Ana whispered. “No …”
Even Rosie was exhausted, her arms and legs visibly trembling. Then Ana felt the thing expand, engulfing her. Her scream was piercing.
“Mamaaa!”
Anahola lifted her head, then moved instinctively. As Rosie pushed aside, she quickly sat and took up the
ko‘o kua
position behind Ana, her legs surrounding her, arms wrapped round her stomach, pressing down. Ana’s head hung with exhaustion. She panted like a dog.
The next seizure swept her with such force, her feet and buttocks left the floor. “Mamaaa!”
“I’m here.”
Her face distorted with effort, Anahola pressed down on Ana’s stomach, willing that child to drop, to begin to come out to the world. Her daughter shouted, she shouted back. Each time a convulsion came, Ana’s elbows bore down on her mother’s knees. Their sweating faces side by side, their cheeks seemingly attached, so Niki saw a two-headed woman giving birth.
And yet the infant would not crown.
Then Anahola whispered in her daughter’s ear, “The baby is close to crowning, I can feel how low she is. When I say three! we are going to
make
the head crown. First we rock side to side, together like one body … and when you are ready I will count to three. Then, we will press down with all our might. Remember, you are in control, only when you’re ready …”
Speaking in a low, soft voice, Lopaka took up position behind Niki, arms tight round his waist, providing traction. Ana tightened her arms round Niki’s neck. Then she and her mother rocked side to side, so attuned they seemed one body. As they rocked, her mother hummed. And Ana’s eyes began to overflow, remembering the sensation of being rocked when she was a child, remembering this same song being hummed, the scent of this same woman rocking her.
Finally, her mother whispered, “Ready?”
She felt pain coming fast, it seemed to gallop. She stood up to it. “Ready. Now.”
Her mother counted. “One … two …”
She would not remember the wrenching push as much as the enormous pressure her mother exerted with her arms upon her stomach. “Now! Press now!”
They threw back their heads and gasped. Then they pressed down, her mouth a gaping rictus. Ana’s eyes bulged. Veins stood out on her neck like ropes, her long, protracted groan so primal and subhuman, folks felt hair stand up on their arms.
The midwife bent and saw the head emerging.
The chanters sang out,
“ ‘Ike ‘ia nā maka I ke ao!”
The eyes are seen in the world! The child is born.
She gently guided the body on through its narrow passage as folks leaned close, exclaiming. A strapping infant that would weigh eight pounds. Ana shuddered, then lay back against her mother’s chest. Laps and thighs tattooed with blood, they watched as the child was lifted in the air still attached to Ana by the
piko
, the umbilical cord. The chanters sang out one last time.
“Ola ke kumu, I ka lālā hou!”
The branches of the tree are green again.
Now Ben stepped forward, and with the guidance of the midwife, he cut and knotted the
piko
, a sacred duty. Then, winding a clean piece of cloth round his finger, he gently stuck it into the baby’s mouth, gagging her just enough to disgorge the
nalu
, birth fluid. He rinsed his own mouth and sucked the fluid from the baby’s nose. He wiped her tiny eyes clean. She wailed, her wails were loud and healthy. The midwife gently sponged her, counting her fingers and her toes. And she was perfect, and everything was as it should be.
Niki knelt on the floor and held his child. “At last. My
goloobka
. Little dove!”
While they sponged off her hands and thighs, Ana listened to the beating of her mother’s heart against her head. And when she was ready, they handed her her child. She knew that henceforth life would be distracted and disordered, that she had lost forever a certain symmetry and focus. But here was this being, this helpless perfection of radiance, her small head covered with a tender down. Ana pressed her to her breast. Here was truth, her deepest truth. And there was no retreat from wonder.