Synchronicity.

        “It was mostly confusion,” Phil says. “Most of the time we didn't really know what was happening. And we could hardly believe it.”
        Sheyene and I both nod. That's the way it was for the two of us as well, in the beginning. Neither of us could see what was happening, never mind believe it. We were protected from each other by forces that seemed invincible: the difference in our ages, my quarter century of absolute fidelity, my abiding love for my children. By the time we saw what was happening, it was too late for seeing. We already believed.
        As Phil tells the story, my second son Michael is sixteen. It's been a tough year for him, and I can already tell that next year will be worse. Serious conflict with his mother. Trouble with friends. Harassment in school. Drugs. And, worst of all, deep depression. Nevertheless, Michael was the first of the boys to accept Sheyene. To my amazement, despite his shyness, he has found it easy to talk with her. Especially about music. Can I borrow your Violent Fems? he'll ask. I'll bring back your Nirvana. Before another year has passed, Michael will move in with Sheyene and me.
        I lay my hand on Sheyene's as Phil continues: “For a long time it was quiet . . .”

        In the dark beneath the blanket, I become impatient with the stillness. Do something, the part of my mind that thinks reflexively says. For some time I've been aware that I can work my hands free from the leather belt knotted behind my back. And so I do it: the unimaginable.
        It takes only a few seconds. Stay here, I whisper to Mary, as I back myself out from underneath the blanket.
        Don't! she whispers sharply.
        But I am already on my knees, stripping the belt off my wrists. Through the window I can see it's dark outside Mark's apartment now. A single lamp illuminates the oddly quiet living room. Phil and Anita lie on their bellies beneath the window, a blanket of a color I can't remember covering their heads. No sign of anyone else; the gunmen have taken Mark upstairs.
        I tiptoe to the doorway of Mark's bedroom, just to make sure. Empty.
        Impulsively, I remove my billfold and wristwatch and toss them onto the floor of Mark's closet. When the gunmen finally get around to robbing us, I tell myself, they will find nothing of value on me. This is stupid—dangerous—and part of me knows it. But if the yellow gold Hawaiian wedding band I've just ordered from Liberty House—the one that has “Kepano,” the Hawaiian phonetic equivalent of “Stephen,” etched in black letters over carven images of plumeria blossoms and tumbling surf—if this ring had already arrived from the engraver's, I would have twisted it off my finger and tossed it into the closet as well. Mary's matching ring will say “Malia.” Tonight she wears only the small diamond ring and companion white gold band I gave her for our engagement. My own ring finger is bare, a testament to my distaste for symbols and traditions. Nevertheless, like our return trip to these islands, the matching Hawaiian wedding bands are my idea. They represent the one sure thing I've already learned about marriage: the need to demonstrate commitment.

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