The Woman in the White Kimono Page 10

  And, of course, there were photos of my father. Hi, Pops.

  He was the quintessential poster child for the ’50s with his mass of dark, slicked-back hair. His wide grin carried the overconfidence of youth. All he needed was the leather jacket and a motorcycle instead of the uniform. I stifled a laugh through tears. No wonder Mama swooned.

  There were sightseeing pictures titled “Hong Kong,” one marked “China’s coast” and several tagged “Japan”—the colorful Goodwill Gate in Yokohama, street vendors peddling wares in Kyoto and a beautiful woman dressed all in white. A kimono. The flesh on my arms prickled.

  Did I ever tell you why I was there? A wedding.

  You should have seen the bride’s gown.

  It was a kimono.

  I brought the photo close. The woman’s chin canted down, so I couldn’t make out her face, but her stained lips, the elaborate folds of the layered material and the half-moon headpiece sang of ceremony.

  My father really did attend a Japanese wedding?

  My arm dropped to my lap, but I didn’t let go of the picture. While I always knew my father’s Great Divide story held grains of truth, I never considered the other stories.

  I would now.

  FIFTEEN

  Japan, 1957

  The humid air kisses my cheeks as Maiko helps me step from her porch onto the ground. Night blankets the village of little houses and bundles it under a cloak of black, but the orange western sky clings to its horizon, peeking, curious.

  For a normal ceremony, the bride and groom are led by a Shinto maiden and form a processional caravan. But without my family’s involvement, we forgo these traditions.

  Maiko has my arm, but the distant lights have my eye. As we round the last house, I gasp. The paper lanterns we made line the entire path and butter-gold orbs illuminate the trees like the yellow hotaru, fireflies, swarming after July’s heavy rains.

  My thoughts also swarm. I’m getting married. I wish Okaasan could have stayed. With a smile, I run my hand down her shiromuku to feel its lush texture under my fingertips and to hold on to her connection.

  The built-up motif of layered white organdy feathers gives the garment fullness and life. Silk floss, in long and short stitches, embroiders the fabric to create its opulence. The brocaded obi sash has a thin ribbon cord in blush and silver to coordinate with the array of flowers woven throughout my hair.

  I have never felt more beautiful or been more nervous.

  Each step I take brings me closer to Hajime and farther away from my family. It is a contrast of extremes in every sense, but with Okaasan’s visit, and now wearing her shiromuku, I have somehow found my place between them. This is what Buddha calls the middle way. The correct balance of life.

  I call it happy.

  Ahead, at the center of the small waiting crowd, is Hajime.

  He stands tall, broad shouldered, his crisp white uniform pressed and polished. The cap is low on his brow, and his hair trimmed neat underneath. His dimpled jaw, clean-shaven, looks chiseled in sharp angles.

  He becomes a blur of white as I scan new faces on either side: Maiko’s husband stands with their children. Grandmother Fumiko with Ishuri’s family, and Hajime’s shipmates Valentine and Spain, to Hajime’s right, dressed in uniform. Everyone smiles. Tatsu, Maiko’s son, shouts my name, provoking giggles.

  Almost there. I glide in Okaasan’s shiromuku to close the distance. My insides crackle in excitement like a sparkler’s flare. Its charged path races through me from toes to fingertips. I look down with a nervous smile as we move forward. This is it.

  I take deep, slow breaths to calm my racing pulse. I sense Hajime’s stare, but only when I stand before him do I dare to lift my gaze. Bowing, I peek up through long tinted lashes, no longer as a young girl, but a woman and, soon, his wife.

  My heart thuds in my ears. I can’t breathe. Is he pleased?

  He bows in return but never lowers his gaze. In it, I know my answer. The lantern light is reflected in his eyes, causing the white wisps at the center to dance like sails across a blue ocean, and I am lost in them. In him. In this moment.

  The Shinto priest, dressed in Jōe, a pure white kimono robe with a tall peaked cap, clears his throat and asks all to stand. The ceremony begins.

  We bow to our ancestors, to our guests and to each other. Then we partake in the three-by-three exchange with three different-size bowls of sake. Each one represents the inseparability of the newly formed bond with an earthy taste like moss kissed from dew. Just as in marriage, not all things endured are pleasant.

  Only with the third bowl, on the third tip, do we allow the pungent mix to spill over our tongue. This is the ninth, so we drink. Nine means triple happiness. I catch the twinge of surprise on Hajime’s face. Did I warn him of its bitterness?

  Everyone claps twice at its completion to gain the attention of the deities, for they must bear witness to the spoken words of commitment.

  Turning to Hajime, the priest begins his inquiry. He asks if he will love me, respect me, console and help me until death. He asks Hajime for his promise. This is what I have been waiting for. Will he understand? Should I interpret? Just as my lips part to speak, he turns.

  “Yes, I promise.”

  His fingers squeeze mine and he leans closer, speaking in low rounded tones. “I promise to love you now... I promise to love you always.”

  My chest is tight trying to hold back emotion, the words. They burst. “I will love you forever, Hajime.”

  The crowd laughs because it wasn’t my turn.

  My cheeks flush and I smile, then look to the priest. “I promise, too.” I do not need him to ask.

  More quiet laughter.

  The Shinto priest then hands us each a small silk pouch that holds a special wedding blessing to close the ceremony. “Let the words serve as a guidepost as you now travel life in a new, singular direction.”

  But before the priest can announce the official proclamation of man and wife, Hajime draws from his own tradition to announce it with a kiss. Even with the remnants of the bitter drink on his lips, it is the sweetest taste I have ever known.

  When Hajime pulls away, well-wishes and cheers bless us, but I hear nothing; I am transfixed by his gaze in the middle of a suspended moment of happiness. We stare at one another, a shared acknowledgment between husband and wife that despite the world’s preconceived notion of propriety and order...we love.

  We love.

  * * *

  After the ceremony, we share a meal under the trees and listen to stories. How Maiko and Eiji met, of Ishuri’s want of sleep since her baby’s arrival and all about Grandmother Fumiko’s many suitors. We laugh and celebrate our new beginning.

  Now it’s late and even the fireflies are sleepy. Their show of light lulls in intermittent sparks. We listen to the steady rise and fall of the crickets’ song, the whisper of wind through the trees, and say good-night to the few remaining guests.

  Maiko stands with her husband, Eiji. Tatsu is slung on his shoulder, his head draped in sleep. Their daughter, Yoshiko, stretches and yawns. It has been a long night for all.

  “Maiko, wait.” With quick steps I move toward her.

  Hanging lanterns dapple light across her rounded cheeks and soften even the finest of lines. “What is it, Naoko?”

  “I just wanted...” I adjust my sleeves, trying to find the words to express how much her kindness has meant. A fresh surge of emotion builds. My throat tightens. “Without my family here or Okaasan...” Tears well and hold on the lower lid, ready to spill. “I wish to say you honor me.” My lips stretch tight and I bow.

  She smiles and returns the gesture. Peering over to Hajime, she grins. “You’ll be fine.”

  Are my nerves so obvious? I glance to Hajime, who talks with his shipmates, then back to Maiko and smile. I laugh with a breath. Yes, I am sure it’s notic
eable. She pats my arm and turns to rejoin her family.

  Although Hajime and I have shared the intimacies of marriage, they were stolen moments rushed for fear of exposure. Now that we’re married, we’ll have a full night to discover each other. We will be alone as husband and wife. No hiding. No concern of time. Nothing between us.

  Except for the secret that I may carry his child. That, I’ll share in the morning.

  For now, I promenade toward my new husband with slow, deliberate steps. He stands alone and captures my gaze. What is this look? My heartbeat quickens. It’s now just us. Everyone has gone. Yes, I know this look. Head slightly cocked. Serious eyes. My stomach flutters.

  He tucks his cap under his arm and holds his hand out for me. “Wife.”

  Wife. I like my new name on his lips. Placing my hand in his, a charge ignites from the contact—just fingertips and I am consumed by heat. We walk toward our little house holding hands, stretching our arms apart to separate around an uneven patch of earth, and coming back together on the other side. From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me.

  “You’re quiet,” Hajime says, and squeezes my hand. “What’re you thinking?”

  “Oh...” My eyes dart to his, then away, blinking back through my contemplations. I am not willing to share these thoughts. With a shrug, I give a sheepish half smile.

  Hajime lifts my hand and presses a kiss there. “Well, I’m thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world. I’m thinking...what could I possibly have done to deserve you?” He gives another kiss to my fingers and stops. He moves close. “I’m thinking...damn, she’s beautiful.” His gaze drops to my lips, he leans down—

  I kiss him, not able to help myself. Warm lips mold to mine. And now I think of nothing, I only feel.

  I’m scooped up in his arms without warning and laugh. “What are you doing?”

  He moves as though I weigh nothing, taking quick short steps to reach our deck. He shifts so he can slide open the stubborn door. “The groom always carries the bride over the threshold.”

  “I don’t know this custom,” I say as he turns so we can both fit through the doorway.

  “Welcome home, my wife.”

  I bite my lip and smile, his odd tradition forgotten.

  My stomach clenches, and I wrap my hands tighter around his neck. With ease, he sets me down, but we do not break apart. We pull close and his lips again find mine. There is a slow building hunger to his kiss. His hand waves through air until it strikes the door to slide it closed. He glides hands over my sides to rest on the obi. His fingers fumble.

  Pulling back, he motions to my mother’s dress. “I’m afraid I’ll damage it. I don’t want—”

  I quiet his lips with my fingers. “It took three women to dress me, Hajime. Please, if you’re patient, to remove, it will take only one.”

  I take off my shoes and tabi socks, nodding for him to follow suit. Then, taking his hands, I guide him to the futon. I motion for him to take a seat. He undoes the top buttons of his dress shirt as he sits on the edge, and pulling the collar loose for comfort, he rests back on elbows.

  I watch him watch me, curious. My heart skips, and I swallow hard.

  With shaky hands, I retrieve the silk cloth the shiromuku wraps in and place it at my feet. Then, with eyes on Hajime and with great care, I reach behind my back to free the decorative cord.

  In soft tones, I speak in Japanese, knowing he will not understand all of what I say. It is not everyday conversation. But they are words I have selected only for him and just for tonight. “You are now my husband. So, without shame, I make myself ready.”

  I wet my lips and take a long breath to steady my nerves, then loosen the sash. It threads through my fingers as it falls. Every movement is measured for a pleasing aesthetic, every touch imagined as though my hand is against his skin.

  I have his complete attention.

  Reaching behind, I unfasten the makura pillow to release the folds along the back. My hands tremble as I pleat one end over the other. Bending only at the knees, I place it near my feet on the open silk.

  “I have no need of cover.” My voice is a throaty whisper.

  I untie the obi knot next. It falls loose in my hands. I set it aside, then undo the himo that holds the excess folded fabric underneath in place. My heart thumps against my chest, causing short breaths.

  Hajime stares, his eyes hooded, stormy. Black pupils crowd out the color, leaving only the thinnest ring of blue.

  As I stand, the unbound shiromuku hangs loose over my body, losing all shape. Now it can be removed.

  “This night...” I continue while gliding my hand under the robe at my shoulder and removing to reveal the undergarment. “My lips, my skin...” I release the other shoulder and hold the loose fabric with my hands. “My all...”

  Hajime tilts his head in recognition of my simple words. My cheeks burn hot. Again, I bend my knees and place the gown on the opened silk. Chin down to show humility, I crouch and look up at him.

  Hajime no longer sits back. He edges closer, leans in.

  Inches from his face, his lips, I whisper, “I welcome your touch. I am for your pleasure.”

  The flutters inside build into a frenzied swarm, knowing what I am about to do. A thousand years of wives loving husbands has awakened in me. It is an ancient knowledge ingrained in my very essence, nature’s own primitive design of courtship and invitation. And like a blueprint, I use it to guide and enchant. I want nothing more than to please him. To show him my love. To feel his.

  With a sharp intake of breath I stand. The undergarment drops, and I am presented to my husband.

  I hold my breath as his falls from parted lips.

  He scans my bare body. My heart beats erratic. Everything is exposed. I am his to admire. My chest rises and falls in short breaths. Heat builds low as I wait, searching his eyes as they search every inch of me.

  I dare not move until he does.

  My husband takes his wife.

  SIXTEEN

  Japan, 1957

  Hajime and I stayed up talking, laughing and loving as husband and wife well after the moon surrendered the horizon. This morning, we lie entangled, two wisteria vines reaching for the same light.

  As sparrows squabble, worry returns to remind me of what’s ahead. After a night of showing him my love, I want to share how it may have already bloomed.

  I breathe the ocean off his bare tanned skin and feel the rise and fall of lean muscle beneath my flattened hand. I am contented. Sated. Nervous.

  I study him while he slumbers. Will our baby have the slight indent of his chin? Eyes like the sea? The subtle wave of his hair? At least his locks hold rich, inky shades. I’d love our child regardless, but this way, one less burden on such tiny shoulders.

  Hajime pulls a lazy breath in through his nose and forms a languid smile. “Morning.” There is a deep scratch to his early waking voice. Another new aspect to cherish.

  As I prop myself up, my hair falls forward. He tucks it behind my ear, combs through the length just to do it again. The repeated movement is soothing, and like a cat, I stretch my neck and lean into him.

  I smile at my husband. Husband. My emotions swim circles. He leaves to patrol the Taiwan Straits today. Should I wait the two weeks to tell him? I stir the water with my words to gauge its temperature. “Ishuri’s baby is beautiful.”

  Liquid blue eyes stare into mine. “You’re beautiful.”

  His fingers trace my smile, but I stay focused. “I consider him perfect. He hardly cried, did you notice?”

  “Ishuri’s tired. She said she never sleeps.” He sucks in a breath that stalls from a sluggish yawn. It swallows his words. “I like sleep.” He stretches, pulls me tighter to him.

  “You don’t like babies?” My voice almost squeaks.

  Hajime guides me to his waiting lips. With a grin, h
e croons, “I like making babies.”

  A full kiss and my insides hum. For the moment, my attention is diverted. Fingertips follow the length of my spine, leaving a trail of heated shivers. The kiss is hungry and delicious, but this cannot wait.

  “Hajime.” I push away and sit up. Shifting my weight, I reach for the scroll tucked near the cushion’s side. The one I made alongside my dragon upon my arrival. I nudge the material closer, grab its edge and place it between us.

  His eyebrows arch. “For me?” He props himself on an elbow, smooths disheveled hair and rubs his eye. Sliding back, he reaches for me. “Come here.”

  I roll onto my side into the crook of his arm and place my head near his chin. I press a finger over the raised letters of the metal dog tag on his chest as he unrolls my wedding gift. I’m frozen with fear. What if this is unwelcome news?

  He holds the silk-bordered paper close and reads the elaborate grass-style kanji. I close my eyes to wait, listening to his heart, and pray it’s open to a child. Three seconds, five, ten? How long will he stare at my words without reaction? My toes squeeze with impatience. To give birth may be easier than announcing its possible arrival.

  “This is amazing.” He kisses the top of my head.

  My eyes pop wide. That’s it? I scrunch my face, confused. His reveals no happiness. Although pleasant, it’s blank.

  He shrugs. “What does it say?”

  “Oh...” I sink into him, relieved. “Grass style is hard to read even for Japanese. It is more for aesthetics than readability.” I point to the vertical symbols along the left side. “This here says six. The next, moon...” I debate if I should explain the dragon’s tail but decide against it. “The last reads as blessings.” My stomach flutters. “In six moons we are blessed.” Pregnancy in Japan measures in lunar months at four-week intervals. So instead of the Western nine, we are pregnant for ten. It’s still forty weeks. And if I am pregnant, I am four moons along. I would deliver in February.