Chapter 5 The Woman on the Ceiling

Afternoon sunlight slanted through my bedroom blinds, throwing striped shadows across the dingy white walls. The room needed work—curtains and a good coat of paint in a cheerful color, for starters. I settled my bruised buttocks on the edge of the bed, rolled onto my back, and found myself staring at the ceiling.

The reflection of a tired old woman stared back. Mirrored ceilings had been a standard feature when these apartments were newly built. Decades later, when the building was converted to a senior complex and the units sold as condominiums, most of the buyers did renovations that included removing the mirrors from their bedroom ceilings. Apparently none of the previous owners of my condo saw reason to do so.

I met the old woman’s gaze. She gave me an eye roll.

“What’s a seventy-eight-year-old woman supposed to do with a mirror over her bed?” I mumbled as my eyes closed.

But sleep wouldn’t come. My hyperactive brain warred with my exhausted body. Images of Pearl, of the life she must’ve led before coming to Kon-Tiki Sands, filled my head.

My thoughts drifted to poor, befuddled Arnie Kaye who couldn’t even remember his own unit number. Romy seemed protective of  him. Maybe the women felt protective of Arnie, as well. It wasn’t like there were many men our age on the market. They’re all either married or buried.

A glance at the bedside clock told me it was 2:38 p.m. I’d been lying there for over two hours. The next time I looked, it was 2:40, then 2:43. At 3:00 p.m. I gave up. Taking my Kindle from the nightstand drawer, I tried to read a mystery novel. But I had no taste for murder, even a fictional one.

TV never interested me much. Howard had been the TV watcher in our home. As soon as he settled in front of The Monster—as I’d thought of it—I would head to a back room to work on my painting or read a good book. Now I felt around in the drawer, extracted the remote, pressed the power button. Maybe the droning of electronic voices, the flashing lights and colors, would bore me to sleep.

With the volume turned low I flipped through the channels, having no idea what Hawai‘i cable had to offer. An episode of the original  Hawaii Five-0 played across the screen. A sixties-era McGarrett spoke intensely to a police officer who could’ve been Hoapili’s twin, evoking an instant re-play of my horrific morning. I tried to switch the channel. Nothing happened. I shook the remote, then banged it against the heel of my hand. McGarrett was still there. The batteries must be dead.

I pulled myself out of bed and crossed the room to change the channel, settling on the Home Shopping Network. At least it wouldn’t be remind me of dead bodies. I drifted to sleep to the sound of an attractive young brunette and her flamboyant African-American male co-host gushing over a set of LED candles.

“—A LOVELY PINK CHENILLE PLUSH BATHROBE BY STAN HERMAN!” blared from the TV. I woke with a start, my heart thudding. Something hard jabbed my hip. I felt for it and discovered I’d rolled onto the remote. Apparently the batteries were not dead after all. On the screen a beautiful blonde modeled a plush pink bathrobe exactly like the one Pearl had drowned in.

I shut off the TV. Hunching over the edge of the bed, I let my forehead drop to my hands. A sob escaped my lips.

There was no use trying to sleep. I went to the living room and powered up my laptop. It was ten years ago that my grandson Kameron set up a Facebook account for me. So we’d always have a way to stay in contact, he’d said. He was twelve at the time. Now, at twenty-two, he’s long since moved on to other forms of social media that are beyond my comprehension. Still, I look in on his page now and then, on the off chance he may have posted something.

I opened Kameron’s page. His most recent post was over two years old. I scrolled through the photos I’d seen many times before: Kameron with his girlfriend, at parties, out with friends. I’d already ‘liked’ and commented on every one of them.

My daughter, Kameron’s mother, is a private person who avoids social media.

I stared for a while at my own Facebook page. The profile picture, taken five years ago, made me look years older than I felt. I had thirty-four friends—neighbors in New York, and women I knew from the Temple Sisterhood, Hadassa, and the Jewish Seniors Club. They day I moved into Kon Tiki I’d snapped a few photos with my phone—of my condo before all the boxes had been brought in, the pool and hot tub, palm trees and tropical flowers in the courtyard. I still hadn’t gotten around to posting them. I hadn’t posted anything since leaving New York.

Now I didn’t feel much like posting those photos, and wondered if I ever would.

Kon-Tiki certainly was filled with a colorful cast of characters. A positive outtake from this morning was I’d learned all their names. It might be fun to find out more.

The first name I typed in was Esther Brown. There were several Esther Browns on Facebook, but none seemed to be my neighbor. I got no hits for Masako or Mae Watanabe, or Sylvie Ferguson. I found a listing for a Kaulana Kano—the woman Tiare said was on Maui. The profile picture was of an older woman with deeply lined mahogany skin, striking ethnic features, and long silver hair adorned with tropical flowers. A glance at her page caused a stab of envy to shoot through me. She’d gone to Kamehameha School and had hundreds of Facebook friends. None of the posts on her page were originated by her, but she’d been tagged in dozens of photos: class reunions, family gatherings, weddings, graduations, Mother’s Day celebrations, birthdays, Christmas … How wonderful to be part of such a large, loving family and community  Or, as they call it here, ‘ohana.

I sent Kaulana a friend request, then did a search for Violet LaFontaine.

Violet’s profile pic was a selfie she’d taken outside, wearing dangle earrings, Prada sunglasses, and a one-piece bathing suit. Violet had several hundred friends, though she didn’t seem to interact much with any of them. Her frequent posts were mainly selfies taken at the pool or in front of a full-length mirror that reflected the outfits she wore. In every shot her hair was styled,  makeup perfectly applied, nails done, plenty of jewelry worn.

Francesca Wolfe also had a Facebook page. She was into Ancestry.com, her posts directed at relatives she’d found online. She’d scanned many black and white photos dating back through several generations of stern-looking Germans.

Tiare Māhoe wasn’t very active on Facebook but, like Kaulana, she’d been tagged in a number of photos. Most were of a much younger Tiare, performing in shows in Waikiki. Some more recent photos showed her singing at what appeared to be an old-style piano bar called La Mariana.

Coralee Beck’s page displayed many photos of extended family—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren—all, apparently, on the mainland. The most recent addition was a chubby-faced, grinning, toothless great-grandson. Why would she choose to live so far away from them?

Neither Arnie Kaye nor Romy Delosa had Facebook accounts. No surprise there.

I’d saved Pearl Corvelli for last. Her Facebook page opened and once again I was struck by the tragedy of her death. She had over a thousand friends that included Coralee, Violet, Kaulana, Francesca, and Tiare. Several people had posted on her wall today, unaware that she’d drowned this morning. Tears blurred my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I scrolled through dozens of photos of Pearl. Recent ones had been taken at folk dance or line dance events in Honolulu. Older photos, probably scanned in, showed her riding in rodeos. In one taken forty years ago in Denver, she posed on a horse, a crown on her head, wearing a sash that read Rodeo Queen.