No Place to Hide Read online

  Made for Success Publishing

  P.O. Box 1775 Issaquah, WA 98027

  www.MadeForSuccessPublishing.com

  Copyright © 2020 Opa Hysea Wise

  All rights reserved.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Distributed by Made for Success Publishing

  First Printing

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Wise, Opa Hysea

  No Place to Hide: A Novel

  p. cm.

  LCCN: 2020903448

  ISBN: 978-1-64146-477-2 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64146-493-2 (eBook)

  ISBN: 978-1-64146-517-5 (Audiobook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  For further information contact Made for Success Publishing

  +14255266480 or email [email protected]

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 - Papahanaumoku

  Chapter 2 - I’m So Sorry to Tell You…

  Chapter 3 - More Time

  Chapter 4 - I Might Regret This, But I’ll Do It

  Chapter 5 - The Moment That Changed Everything

  Chapter 6 - Return to Your Breath

  Chapter 7 - Choose Wisely

  Chapter 8 - Litter or Treasure?

  Chapter 9 - The Choice Is Yours

  Chapter 10 - How Did We Get Here?

  Chapter 11 - Until You Needed Me

  Chapter 12 - Restless

  Chapter 13 - The Divine Dance

  Chapter 14 - Let Go of the How

  Chapter 15 - Returning to Darkness

  Chapter 16 - What Do You Want From Me?

  Chapter 17 - It Was a Set-Up

  Chapter 18 - A Fish out of Water

  Chapter 19 - Digno

  Chapter 20 - I Think I Died

  Chapter 21 - Find the Good

  Chapter 22 - Blind Commitment

  Chapter 23 - Aversion to Love

  Chapter 24 - Lean In

  Chapter 25 - The Renovations

  Chapter 26 - Retrograde

  Chapter 27 - The Expression of God

  Chapter 28 - Grief Comes in Many Forms

  Chapter 29 - It’s Going to Get Messy

  Chapter 30 - The Shift

  Chapter 31 - A Cup in a Pail of Water

  Chapter 32 - Benef

  Chapter 33 - The Gray SUV

  Chapter 34 - Removing the Mask

  Chapter 35 - Forgiveness

  Chapter 36 - You Have What You Need

  Chapter 37 - It’s All Come Down to This

  Chapter 38 - Trust My Words

  Chapter 39 - Trust Your Gut

  Chapter 40 - All Things Are in Motion

  Epilogue - It Was You All Along

  About Opa Hysea Wise

  Papahanaumoku

  “OUR LAND HAS BEEN DECIMATED,” AKAMU SAID.

  “Poisoned beyond repair,” Alika replied.

  “No—not beyond repair.” Akamu turned from his grandson, gazed out toward his backyard and sighed into the depths of his spirit—into the Spirit in all things. Bird of paradise, hibiscus, and plumeria scented the air, yet he took no comfort in their perfume. He considered the makeshift stone wall, built by his own hands several years ago. No more than three feet in height, it ran the length of his property, yet he remembered only the anger he felt as he laid each stone in place. Beyond the wall, a road ran past his property, winding its way toward two of the towns on the island—Waimea and Kekaha.

  Akamu recalled the Waimea valley of his youth. A sturdy man who toiled the soil of his ancestors, Akamu lived within a community where everyone worked hard, respected, and relied upon one another to survive. His ancestors were not only hunters but fishermen and farmers. Taro farming was prevalent in the valley then, and the farmers of taro would exchange their crops for fish caught that day. That way of living—of relying on another—seemed to be fading away.

  His eyes peered beyond the road to the open-air testing fields of crops, which were sprayed all day, every day by unknown chemicals—chemicals that were beginning to have medical and environmental consequences, particularly for the children living within a few miles of the crops. He thought of the dust and the chemicals from those crop fields that now settled onto his land—the land of his grandfather. He could no longer sit on his porch and enjoy his land, nor would he allow his grandchildren’s children to play in front of his home. And, beyond the crops, he envisioned a clear path to the sandy beaches and the breathtaking ancestral waters of the Pacific.

  Akamu looked to the sky. The sun was disappearing behind incoming clouds as the day slowly yielded to evening. He tilted his head to the sky, his nose to the air, and inhaled deeply. It will rain soon, he thought. Another storm runoff all da way to ka moana. He hobbled to the kitchen, pulling out a large envelope from a slat under the floor before returning to his living room.

  “But the time to act is now, Alika. Take this. Hide it away from yourself, your friends, and your home. It is of utmost importance. You must see to it that no one finds these documents.” He handed his grandson a large manila folder held together by several pieces of twine. “I will contact you soon and tell you where you must take these documents.”

  “What are they, grandfather?”

  “Proof that our keikis’ lives are at stake. You must not allow The Company to know of your existence, for if they discover you, they will soon find the documents and destroy you… or anyone who gets in their way, for that matter.”

  “I understand. Who will I give them to?” Alika asked.

  “I cannot tell you now, but soon. Return to the valley on the mainland and keep the documents well hidden in your home until the time comes.”

  “Papahanaumoku will be pleased, then.”

  “Perhaps. Go now, out the back way. Let no one see you.”

  Alika held the thick file in his hand—his thumb and index finger struggling to hold the weight of it. He believed it offered the beginning of freedom for his people from the tyranny of greed by the invasion of a capitalist culture. He shoved the file into his backpack and placed the pack on his shoulders, securing the straps tightly around his waist. Alika moved to the back of his grandfather’s house, peeking through the porch window, scanning the area. He gazed upon the land of his ancestors, taking it all in.

  Could it be that we can repair our land, or is it too late?

  He thought of Akamu and his land. A farmer, Akamu owned a small plot of about ten acres. On this land, his father’s father taught him the ohana way—the family way of living responsibly and with integrity within the community. He had watched as his father’s father provided enough produce for many in the area. As an adult, Akamu followed in his grandfather’s footsteps. He grew enough vegetables to feed not only his immediate family but his ohana family—neighbors who lived miles away, many of whom were now sick with various lung diseases. What produce was left, he delivered to a local food bank, using an old pickup truck with a sticky clutch.

  Alika smiled at the honorable life his grandfather lived. It was that sa
me ohana honor which drew Alika back to the island. But, tomorrow, he would leave the island under the menace of uncertainty.

  With a solemn look upon his face, he turned to say goodbye to his grandfather only to realize Akamu had already retired to bed. Alika pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and placed a bandanna over his mouth, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. His body tense with foreboding, he headed through the porch door toward his car, which sat behind an old, dilapidated barn hidden beneath tangled underbrush.

  As soon as Alika was out of sight, Akamu sat up on the edge of his bed and dialed a familiar number on the phone receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “He rides like the wind,” Akamu replied.

  “Good, good. We are meeting in the next few days. He knows to keep them safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are originals?”

  “Yes, they are replaced with copies.”

  “Mahalo.”

  I’m So Sorry to Tell You…

  One Year Later…

  Smythe laid restless in her bed, noting the date. February 15th. It had been a night of constant tossing and turning. She peered toward the window at the far end of her room. Where is that light coming from?! Disgusted with her lack of sleep, Smythe turned her back to the window. She reached for her glasses on the side table before glancing at her alarm clock. She sighed, pulling the sheet over her head and closing her eyes. It was then she remembered the light which streamed through the edges of her curtain came from the porch lamp, which remained on all night.

  She thought that perhaps she was uneasy because she had resigned from her position at work the day before. No, she sighed, it had been months in the making. Still. Whatever the reason for her restlessness, Smythe found herself mentally reviewing pieces of her life. Picking at it, really.

  She thought about her name. She could not recall why her parents named her Smythe Windwalker Daniels. It was a name people either mispronounced or made fun of. It was Smythe, like Smith, not Smythe with a long “y” or Smithee. Her father said he named her. He heard the name meant to smite something, or another word for soldier. Her middle name was even more of an issue. Given to her by her mother, Clara, of Navajo lineage, she said Smythe was conceived in the back of an old pickup during a windstorm in the fields of an Illinois farm. Her mother eventually married Smythe’s father, Drake, an African American Army officer. Considered late in comparison to the rest of their generation, Clara and Drake didn’t marry until their early thirties. Together they raised Smythe and her two sisters, each born a little over a year and a half apart.

  Smythe tossed to the other side of the bed. “Perhaps it really is just the uncertainty of my future,” she mumbled. After a few more minutes of wandering down memory lane, complete with enough sighing to keep anyone awake, she rose to the stillness of the morning. She fumbled to turn on the lamp on her nightstand and sat up against her headboard. The glow of the lamp bathed her in soft strands of golden light, and there, she quietly sat, wondering what the day ahead would bring. Gazing around her bedroom, Smythe realized she had nowhere to go. Desperate for a cigarette, she quickly dressed and made coffee before heading out her apartment door. As though for the first time, she noticed that her apartment faced north, and it caused her to pause.

  She remembered reading that north was the symbol of culmination and fulfillment, infused with clarity of mind.

  It’s the liminal space that offers us the ability to release the lessons we have learned into our conscious moments. It’s supposed to represent wisdom and insight, allowing for a deepening of our contemplative moments.

  Smythe stood on the threshold of her front door, scrunching her nose. She wondered what she knew for sure anymore. Everything seemed so new.

  She entered her car, pressed her SUV’s ignition button, and took note of the time—3:00 a.m. Turning on the heater, she sat, calculating how long she would give herself that morning.

  Three hours should be enough. Joao will have to wait.

  With a cold front sweeping in from the north the night before, threatening to freeze everything in its path, the morning hours offered a bitter cold, engulfing the valley in frost yet again. She sat back and watched small ice particles melt atop the hood of the car while she waited for it to warm up.

  Slowly backing out of her parking stall, she rolled her window down, staring at the darkened windows of her neighbors. Bed is where I should be. She smirked, lit a cigarette, and took a sip of coffee before making her way out of the complex.

  Just breathe, it’ll be ok.

  She drove to a small strip mall, a mere two blocks away, positioning her car east to watch the sun rise above the mountain range. Knowing the early morning hour was no place for a woman alone in the middle of a parking lot, she hid along the side of a large department store, away from the street lamps.

  After idling her vehicle and smoking a couple cigarettes with a few sips of coffee in between, she turned off her engine. Feeling the morning’s cold February air, Smythe gathered her jacket collar around her neck. She sighed and sat in weariness. So much had shifted in her life. Her eyes darted around the parking lot. It was empty, save a car at the far end. She felt the heaviness of the air around her, and she listened. The only sound was the reverent silence an early morning could offer. And here, in the solitude of the morning, Smythe sat waiting.

  Her old nemesis began to surface, and it called her crazy. She brushed it aside as old news and dreamt of the many possibilities of a new future. A frown formed across her brow as her mind wandered to the last three weeks. She could feel the weight of grief threatening to take over.

  These last few weeks should have been filled with joy.

  She stared out the window, taking in a breath. Her inward vision tunneled as she recalled the recent dark days.

  Just four weeks before her resignation, Smythe found herself sitting in an emergency room next to her mother, Clara. Smythe’s father had become gravely ill. Diagnosed several years ago with a degenerative brain disorder, he barely recognized Smythe and often hallucinated. His gait was slow, shuffled, and stiff, requiring the constant use of a walker. He could no longer swallow food without violent fits of coughing. As if the physical deterioration wasn’t enough, her mother suffered under his obstinate behavior. Refusing to follow directions for even the smallest of tasks, he yelled and berated her. At one point, he threatened her with his cane, causing her mother to call Smythe to come to her rescue.

  One day, while sitting in a meeting at work, her mother called to say that her father was unresponsive after attempting to wake him that morning. Clara called the paramedics, and after a brief examination, they rushed him to the hospital. Smythe arrived at the emergency room and found her mother sitting alone in his room where her father’s bed should have been. Upon her face lay a trail of dried tears. She began to weep of exhaustion once again as her daughter approached.

  “Oh Smythe, he’s had a stroke, and they are unsure he will survive it,” she blurted out.

  Smythe’s skin paled, her eyes widened, and she willed her tears to cease their march down her cheeks. She lifted her chin and looked around the room.

  “Where is he?”

  “They’ve taken him for tests. They want to see how bad it is.”

  Smythe moved an empty chair to sit next to her mother. They both winced at the sudden, loud, scraping sound. Holding her mother’s hand, Smythe listened as her mother recited yet another chapter of her father’s long goodbye. At the end of her story, she weakly asked Smythe to call “the girls.”

  “I will, but only after we get results about the tests.” Her mother nodded in agreement.

  When it came to bad news, Smythe was often the unwilling conduit of information to the family. She was the one who called her siblings when her grandmother died, the one who called when their aunt passed away, the one who called when their father had a heart attack, and the one who called with the neurological diagnosis of their father. Now, she was tasked to
deliver even more devastating news.

  A short time later, her father was wheeled into the room. Placing an oxygen tank behind his bed, the nurse dimmed the lights low. The ER doctor strode into the room a short time later and introduced herself to Smythe before solemnly asking for a meeting outside.

  They followed behind the doctor into an adjoining waiting room, which provided sensory relief from the noise of monitoring equipment and chatter in the hallway. Smythe’s mother huddled next to her.

  “He will not recover, I’m afraid,” the doctor quietly stated. “The damage is too extensive.” She explained the various tests performed, the reason for the tests, and their results. Smythe pursed her lips together. She felt her mind wander but compelled herself to focus on the information the doctor conveyed.

  And then the question.

  “What do you want to do?” the doctor asked. Smythe closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she turned to her mother. She watched as tears streamed down her mother’s cheeks, her face beginning to become ashen. She took her mother’s hand into her own and looked deep into her eyes.

  “I can’t make the decision, Smythe.”

  “He would not want this, Mom.”

  “I know. I just can’t say the words. I need you to say them for me,” she whispered.

  Smythe stood in silence. She imagined her mother and the 50 years of marriage she shared with her husband. Smythe imagined that perhaps by not saying the words, her mother was delaying the decision, if only for another moment. But someone had to speak.

  To make the most compassionate decision she could on her father’s behalf, Smythe looked over to the doctor, her voice steady and strong. “He wouldn’t want this existence and would be furious if we kept him alive like this. We need to let him go.”

  The doctor nodded her head. She went on to explain what they would and would not medically do on his behalf, which would include removing all nutritional supplements.

  “We will continue his pain and anxiety medications and monitor his blood oxygen levels but will take away his oxygen.”