The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings Read Free Book Online Page B

water, the purse, or something else entirely, like a new condo development or life insurance. She was with a man, and they had three children of three different races who were pointing at something in the sky. I remember this because I said to Joanie, “Are these supposed to be her kids? They don’t look alike. What is this an ad for?”
    Joanie looked at the paper. “Hilo Hattie. They like to represent Asians and hapas and Filipinos.”
    “But the parents are white. They’re not creating a credible family.”
    “Maybe they’re adopted.”
    “That’s just stupid,” I said. “Why not have an Asian mom and a Filipino dad?”
    “They never marry that way.”
    “A hapa mom and an Asian dad.”
    “They like white adult models and ethnic kids.”
    “Well, what about the black man? I mean, why not throw in a black kid?”
    “The few black people here are military. They’re not the target market.”
    I closed the paper, annoyed by the entire conversation. “What the hell are they looking at, anyway?”
    “Their glorious future,” Joanie said in a deadpan voice.
    I started to laugh and she did, too, and when the girls came into the kitchen and asked what was so funny, we both said, “Nothing.”
     
     
     
    THIS WOMAN FROM the newspaper is getting settled on Joanie’s bed, and I don’t know what to do. I want to leave; I generally don’t like being with people here, but it’s too late. She sees us and smiles, then turns on a light with a remote control.
    “Hi there,” I say.
    “Hello,” she says.
    I see her looking at Scottie in a sympathetic way that reminds me of how I looked at Lani. “Mind if we stay and watch?” I ask.
    “Sure. I won’t be long.” She has a tray on her lap, and she picks up various identical brushes before settling on one and going to work on Joanie’s face, working around the tube. She dips the brush into a palette of gloss and dabs at my wife’s lips as if she’s some kind of French pointillist. Though I find this absurd, I have to admit that Joanie would appreciate it. She enjoys being beautiful. She likes to look luminous and ravishing—her own words. Good luck, I used to tell her. Good luck with your goals.
    We don’t treat each other very well, I suppose. Even from the start. It was as though we had the seven-year itch the day we met. The day she went into a coma, I heard her telling her friend Shelley that I was useless, that I leave my socks hanging on every doorknob in the house. At weddings we roll our eyes at the burgeoning love around us, the vows that we know will morph into new kinds of promises: I vow not to kiss you when you’re trying to read. I will tolerate you in sickness and ignore you in health. I promise to let you watch that stupid news show about celebrities, since you’re so disenchanted with your own life.
    Joanie and I were urged by her brother, Barry, to subject ourselves to counseling as a decent couple would. Barry is a man of the couch, a believer in weekly therapy, affirmations, and pulse points. Once he tried to show us exercises he’d been doing in session with his girlfriend. We were instructed to trade reasons, abstract or specific, why we stayed with each other. I started off by saying that Joanie would get drunk and pretend I was someone else and do this neat thing with her tongue. Joanie said tax breaks. Barry cried. Openly. His second wife had recently left him for someone who understood that a man didn’t do volunteer work.
    “Stop it, Barry,” Joanie said. “Get ahold of yourself. This is just how we work.”
    I agreed. When she told Shelley I was useless, I heard the smile in her voice and knew she was pretending to be irritated. Really, she wouldn’t know what to do without my uselessness, just as I wouldn’t know what to do without her complaints. I take it back. It’s not that we don’t treat each other well; it’s just that we’re comfortable enough to know that sarcasm and aloofness keep us afloat, and we never