One of the wettest spots in the world, Kauai is known as the “Garden Island.” From the main road, waterfalls can be observed. Sugarcane fields traverse the base of the majestic mountains. I picked up a travel brochure at the airport, and now as we drove, I buried my head in it for lack of knowing what to say. Merilee turned on the radio and sang along to what sounded like a local garage band. Her voice, like her car, was rustier now.

Reading made me carsick, so I folded the brochure, leaned back into the cracked upholstery, and focused out the window.

Along the road, plantation shacks squatted in a palette of weathered primary colors. Roadside stands advertised papayas and bananas. Rain fell intermittently causing Merilee to constantly fiddle with the wipers. Out of the wet red earth grew impossible bright pink and orange flowers. We drove past a grove of tall palm trees, their hairy tops swaying in the ocean breeze like hula skirts. The greenest fields I had ever seen stretched down to white sand that then melted into emerald-colored water. No wonder Merilee had chosen to live here.

My mother reached past me and popped open the glove box. It was stuffed full of junk: maps, candy wrappers, hair elastics. From inside the jumble, she pulled out a baggie half-filled with pot and a couple of rolled joints and handed it to me.

“Really?” I arched my brows. I checked around as if God, or worse, my father was somewhere in the car.

“Only if you want to,” she said.

I took out one of the joints and my mother pressed in the cigarette lighter. Neither of us said a word as I lit the joint, inhaled like the pro I’d become, and passed it to her. She gave me a curious half-smile then shrugged. I was relieved. I had wondered how I would get through the whole week without it but had been too afraid of getting caught with a stash on the plane. And at least my mother wasn’t drinking.

“Good stuff,” I croaked, taking another hit.

I handed the joint to my mother. As she smoked, I observed the deep lines around her thin lips. Mine were fuller, but our faces were the same shape, both ovals with high cheekbones, and the contour of our brows were alike. But the resemblance stopped there. The rest of me was pure Goldstein.

“The best on the island,” said my mother proudly. “We grow it in one of our friend’s backyards.”

We? Our? What was I in for? I had so many questions.

“How much farther?” I asked.

“Don’t children ever outgrow that question?” my mother joked.

Her saying that scratched at something vicious inside me. I started formulating a retort like “You didn’t stick around long enough to find out” when my mother shouted.

“Hey! Look up to your left!”