The Woman in the White Kimono Read online

  But it paid off. Photos showed buildings in Zushi with curved roof tiles, but none were homes, and not all were old. Two were converted into ryokans or hotel-like inns, and three were refurbished as restaurants. Since all had curved roofs, all five locations were printed and pinned underneath the map, but there had to be an easier way. I needed someone who knew the area, someone in Japan whom I could call and ask questions, but who?

  Yoshio Itō at Tokyo Times.

  I straightened at once. I’d worked with him on a piece about the safety of Japan’s nuclear reactors and then again when their Democratic Party leader fell under suspicion of taking bribes. Although Yoshio didn’t live near Zushi, he spoke the language, and as a Japanese citizen and local journalist he might have access to records that I didn’t.

  I scanned the envelope after blocking off my father’s PO box with tape, then emailed Yoshio, requesting “off the record” help in locating the property. That was all I told him. Aside from past online chats, shared resources and work-related email correspondence, Yoshio and I were strangers, and this was personal.

  Thunder rumbled.

  I’d lost track of time and the afternoon had lost its light. I peered out the window. One thick drop of rain followed another to splatter on the walk. The Caddy! I had left it out and the top down. I scrambled to find Pops’s key chain, then raced out the door.

  Just as I pulled into the garage, the sky cracked open. Heavy drops pummeled the cement and pounded at the gutters like a hundred angry fists. Filled with nostalgia, I stepped from the car and stood with hands slung in my pockets to watch the downpour.

  One summer my father and I had been out in the yard when a storm came on just as quick. Pops set up lawn chairs in the garage to wait it out and made up stories about my chalk drawings running pastel rivers down the drive.

  Lightning lit the sky. I unfolded one of Pops’s lawn chairs and took a front row seat. He was missing a heck of a show, and I was missing him.

  After a while, I stood, pushed the button that closed the garage and stepped inside, tossing his keys on the counter. Something I’d done at least a dozen times in the last week or so, and yet, I froze, eyes fixed to them. There were four. A typical house key for the condo, the original set for the Caddy and one for a padlock.

  The self-storage unit.

  My father had agreed to downsize and move into the retirement community a year or so after my mother had passed. We got rid of most of the furniture, yard equipment and everyday items he’d no longer need, but moved what had been in the home’s attic to a self-storage facility.

  That was years ago, and I’d forgotten.

  Within minutes, I had my bag, and was back out the door.

  EIGHTEEN

  Japan, 1957

  The sun sails high and proud above ridge clouds, a white fluffy ocean with small cascading waves. A perfect afternoon in the little village, and yet, I sense the coming storm. I twist my hands, one inside the other, and squint at the sky. It’s been a long week, and I face another one without Hajime.

  Everywhere I turn today, I see Grandmother’s omens. It’s only old-folk wisdom and nonsense, but last night a spider inside the house escaped my capture, so I couldn’t release the bad luck it carried. And this morning my zōri sandal’s band snapped, which signals pending misfortune.

  I try to ignore the ominous signs and concentrate on the children who gather around my rotting stoop. Every day more and more arrive for impromptu English lessons. Including Maiko’s children, Tatsu and Yoshiko.

  It’s taught in school, but no one in this village attends, just as Kiko warned. My heart breaks, but it builds on my resolve to change things. Because Hajime teaches me conversational English instead of the memorized lines we learned in class, the children will gain the advantage of both.

  When I first met Hajime, we both spoke English, but couldn’t communicate. It was Saturday, day of the Earth, and Kiko and I had traveled to Yokosuka. I spotted him crouched as though trying to pry up stones from the road. Such a silly American boy! Kiko and I inched closer, amused. But when he looked up, I gazed into eyes as blue as the stones the street was named for.

  “Arigatōgo,” he said.

  Thank you? Kiko nudged my arm, laughed.

  “You are welcome?” I said in Japanese.

  “Ah...” A slow smile with wide, deep lines crept across his tanned and angled cheeks. “English?” He rubbed at his dimpled jaw. “Watashi wa hanasenai...English?”

  He can’t speak English? What? Kiko and I again exchanged looks. In Japanese I told him, “You cannot speak Japanese, either.”

  That time, he laughed, but it was obvious he didn’t know why. “Man, if you’re not a living doll.”

  “No,” I said in English, showing him my hair. “I am a girl. Naoko.”

  Tatsu, Maiko’s son, tugs at my leg and drags me from memory.

  We’ve been at it for over an hour. “Really...re-lee,” I say, articulating how to form the word with my mouth. Japanese language does not have an L. It doesn’t exist, and this is the source of much confusion. “Rea-la-la-lee.”

  “Ri-lee,” Tatsu says, and beams.

  I pat his head. “Yes, good.”

  Although much younger, he reminds me of Kenji. He has the same bright eyes and long lashes. His hair sticks up from a cowlick and he is always moving. The comparison makes me ache for home. And I know my little brother also aches for me.

  I asked Hajime how he snuck Okaasan here without Grandmother or her fox spies knowing.

  His grin split his face. “I found a fox spy of my own,” he had said. “One who likes baseball cards and misses his big sister.”

  Now I miss them both.

  Maybe I could visit home in secret again? Watch as Kenji returns from school? I had done it once before. If I leave now... I stand.

  “Arigatō, gozaimasu, Sensei.” One after the other the children bow.

  I return the gesture, overwhelmed by how grateful they are for my time. But I’m the appreciative one. Time is a stubborn creature that delights in goading you. When happy, it sprouts wings and flies. When waiting, it drags through thick mud with heavy feet. The children help me to trek through the terrain.

  “You’re a good teacher, Naoko!” Maiko calls as she gathers dry clothes from the line.

  Tatsu races to her, chanting, “Ri-lee-Ri-lee-Ri-lee!”

  I dip my chin with a head bow. Am I a teacher? The thought is a seed, planted for later. Right now I’m desperate for the familiarity of home, even if only from a distance.

  * * *

  The train rumbles under my seat as I watch the landscape rush by in splotches of green. Between my finger and thumb I roll lavender sprigs plucked on my way to the station. It’s the leaves that hold the fragrance, and I crush their scent to my skin before holding it under my nose to inhale its comfort.

  Such a day. A sigh escapes, my hands drop to my lap and I consider my sandal. I had to fix the strap again before I left. An additional unlucky sign. You’re not supposed to mend your clothes before you leave the house. All this good luck–bad luck is silly.

  Standing, I wait until it’s safe to exit the train, almost tripping for want of my family and home.

  The familiar trees along the road welcome me with high waving branches. The sun flirts between them, still warm. Still happy. The caw of a black crow catches my ear, and when I look up, I catch his eye. I turn away. It’s another forecast of misfortune.

  These omens stalk me.

  I stare at my feet as I walk, trying to concentrate hard on pleasant thoughts. I think of our wedding and the night of love that followed. Of this baby, the one I now hope to carry. Of Hajime’s ship and how it is only seven days from carrying him home.

  Gravel kicks up on the road ahead of me under the weight of a car. A car? Although Japan’s economy grows, vehicles, even among the prosperou
s, are rare. Father has yet to consider a purchase. I move to the side, allowing its passage, then stop.

  It’s a funeral coach.

  Not the elaborate miya hearse with the gilded gold-and-red shrine on the rear, but the modest van used to transport a body to the funeral home. My thumbs tuck in each fist as a precaution. Thumb in Japanese translates to parent-finger, and hiding it serves as their protection. A superstition, but this one, even I do not challenge. The menacing sensation that has soaked my skin all day now drowns me.

  I watch it pass in the direction I just traveled from the train. Then turn back with dread. Where had it been? Over the small hill there are just three homes.

  One of them mine.

  My stomach drops.

  Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s our dear neighbor’s widowed mother-in law. But maybe it’s...

  Blood rushes my ears, creating panic in its pulse. My feet begin to move. One step, then another and another. Faster and faster they push off to propel me forward until I’m running. The sandal with the homemade fix frees itself. I scoop it up and continue running.

  At the top of the hill, I stop, breathless, with one foot bare. My heart slams against my ribs. There’s my house, undisturbed. My eyes dissect every detail. The landscape...tended. The door...inched open to catch a cooling breeze. The quiet... I’m sure Grandmother enjoys her tea in the garden.

  Yes, maybe everything is okay, after all. There are tire indents near my feet. I bend to the earth and scoop the loose gravel in my fingers. There is no maybe in their direction. I trace the tread marks and follow them home.

  The steps I took between the top of the hill and my front door do not exist in my memory. I see only flickers in my mind’s eye, images that will haunt me for the remainder of my life. I blink and float through time. I’m on my porch. A white lantern hangs to signal death. I’m at its door. There’s a wailing. Sobs. Who?

  I want to hold my ears, make it stop, make this go away. Two shadows move inside. Grandmother and Okaasan would be the only ones home. Taro? Father? Oh, not Kenji. Please not... Shaky fingers fumble the door the remaining way open.

  My father turns.

  His eyes are red under heavy, downcast brows. They’re swollen with emotion. When they fall on me, his lips twitch with surprise, then press tight to suppress it. The crying comes from Grandmother. She’s hunched into her hands and shakes with grief.

  I bend and step from my remaining shoe, then run around them both. More flashes to burn into memory. The empty kitchen. The empty bedroom. The other bedroom. The garden?

  My bare footsteps pound the floor. Grandmother calls my name, but I’m gone, running the outside path in slow motion. Rocks and dirt dig into my unprotected feet. I turn my head in every direction.

  “Okaasan?” Her name spills from my lips and catches against my throat. I scream the childhood nickname: “Haha!” It’s sharp. Piercing. Desperate. Where is she? Is she alone grieving? Did Taro have an accident? Please not Kenji.

  I sprint the grounds, blinded by tears, searching. The empty tea garden where I presented Hajime. The Zen garden to the east where Okaasan and I shared secrets. The small shrine to the west. Oh! My hand slaps my gaping mouth. It’s already covered in white paper to keep out the impure spirits of death.

  Taro. I spot him walking with Kenji from the hill. I am paralyzed by the sight of them. They are together. Grandmother and Father are inside.

  Blood rushes my head. I may faint. There’s not enough air. “Haha!” Her name rips from my lungs.

  I don’t remember entering the house again. But here I am. Empty kitchen. Obaachan’s tea sits untouched and dishes are out. Empty bedroom. My parents’ sleeping room smells of patchouli and sandalwood. It’s earthy and damp, like the garden after a rain. A small table filled with flowers. Did I see these before? Father’s outside, walking to the boys. It’s all in slow motion, underwater.

  Hands to face, Grandmother stands in the middle of the main room. Her shoulders shake. Her hair’s in disarray. The bun at the nape of her neck slants to the side, and strands have worked free to rest in peculiar directions.

  As I inch toward her, her fingers drop and hover near her chin. Her eyes sag with grief. My lips quiver, trying to form the question my ears can’t bear the answer to. Grandmother nods before I can ask.

  This isn’t true. I shake my head. No. No. No.

  “Her heart—”

  “No!” My arms fly up to wave away her words.

  Stepping away, I scream at her. “No! She’s not dead!” She can’t be dead. My hands claw through my hair and pull. I tug hard, ripping from the roots to transfer the pain, needing to feel something else. Anything else. This isn’t happening.

  Grandmother speaks, but I’m too far inside myself to hear. I rock on my heels...back and forth, my head buried in my arms, my heart bleeding out. How could she be dead? A sharp gasp of air sucks in. I release violent sobs out. I am shackled with them and fall to my knees, distraught.

  My tongue pushes to the roof of my mouth as my throat constricts to keep screams from escaping bloated lungs. Grandmother steps closer. I clutch her legs and weep into them with loud cries and rivers of tears. She strokes my hair, but I am inconsolable.

  My mother is dead.

  NINETEEN

  Japan, 1957

  Time does not discriminate. It does not care if we are happy or sad. It does not slow or hurry. It’s a linear creature, traveling in one direction, constant even through pain.

  Today is Okaasan’s funeral.

  I have only been to one, and I was a child. I remember Okaasan saying, “Death is only a doorway. We are here both to honor their life and help them pass through to the next.” This is what I told Kenji last night when he snuck in my room. His pained expression mirrored my thoughts. I do not want her to pass through. I want her here.

  White summer chrysanthemums blanket the main temple area and frame the altar, their light scent dusting the air. It blends with the agarwood incense and grows stronger with each passing minute. Normally, the resinous heartwood is pleasing. But here behind closed doors, it is a cloying odor that clings to my skin, my clothing, my memory.

  Grandmother sits beside me dressed in an all-black formal mourning kimono. Her hair sweeps up neat into a round and perfect bun, and her eyes are hollow. Like the famous Chinese painted dragons of Andong, they are without her spirit. I listen as she rolls prayer beads back and forth. Her lips tremble with silent words.

  Father and Taro sit tall, resigned. I’m allowed to attend Okaasan’s ceremonies because I’m expected to stay on at home. Father and Taro are preoccupied with business, Grandmother’s growing age. And because my family does not recognize my marriage, Kenji now resides in my care. He tucks under my arm and stares at nothing. In his dark suit, he looks more like a young man than a nine-year-old boy. My guilt is infinite. I’m not fit to take Okaasan’s place.

  Soft footsteps pad up the middle aisle. One after another, mourners file in, bow to us and offer incense at the altar. This goes on forever. Kiko’s family offers their respect, but in refusing to look at me, Kiko grants me none.

  I clamp my teeth. Guilt eats my insides raw. Sleep is the brother of death, and I am in need of his company. I wish to be anywhere else. Since my tears will find no comfort, they are best not shed.

  When I look up, I spy the Tanaka family returning from the altar.

  Satoshi.

  His hair is slicked back to reveal angular features and warm eyes, and the suit fits him well. He looks like a modern man of business. I stare at his feet as he passes to sit behind us.

  His family must know I have chosen an American and the divide it’s caused. To feel something other than shame, I dig my thumbnail under the other so deep it almost draws blood. The back of my neck burns hot from Satoshi’s judgment. A mind conscious of guilt is its own accuser, and Hajime’s absenc
e only makes this worse. Do they wonder where he is?

  Kenji wipes his face when the Buddhist priest begins to chant a section from the sutra. Everything runs together. The hollow click-click-click of Grandmother’s beads, the hum of quiet prayers and the priest’s explanation of utmost bliss and those that dwell there. It all fades in and out.

  I sit rigid in my emptiness.

  Because I was not home for the last-moment preparations, I didn’t dare ask Father or Obaachan what personal items resided inside the coffin. Did they add the six coins for easy passage of the Sanzu River?

  The Sanzu is the river the dead must pass on their way to the afterlife. Your life’s virtues determine the place of crossing, and there are only three.

  A bridge, a shallow ford and rapid waters infested with snakes.

  Okaasan will cross over the bridge because of her good life and blameless heart.

  Kenji’s tears dampen my shoulder. I hold him tighter and whisper comfort as they announce Okaasan’s new name to close the ceremony. The length determines the price, and Father paid a small fortune to honor her. We’re required to call her the short form version of this name to ensure we do not rouse her spirit from beyond.

  I want to call her back right now.

  Kenji and I stand to the side while guests file out. It is a sea of black. Black suits, black kimonos and blackened spirits. Mr. Tanaka speaks with Father and Taro. Mrs. Tanaka bows to Grandmother and pats her hand. No one looks past them to me, except for Satoshi.

  I drop my chin, stare at his suit coat, concentrating on the fibers.

  He leans to Kenji, who hangs on my arm. “If you need anything, you just come over, okay? And next week, we’ll still play ball. Don’t forget.”

  Kenji only nods and lifts his chin, a brave face in front of his newest friend.