The Woman in the White Kimono Page 14

  Before that life, I lived another.

  It’d be easier if you just read my letter.

  It wasn’t easier. Because the letter didn’t tell me he’d been married or where his daughter was or what happened. It didn’t explain anything. There was nothing easy about any of this.

  I thought of the photo of the woman in the white kimono, how I’d found elements of truth in all his stories, then I stared again at his signature on the marriage document and the one underneath. The last name was smudged, so only a handful of symbols to make up the first remained.

  Wait. Didn’t Japanese write their last name first? Yoshio did. I wiped at my eyes and looked again at the symbols. There were three and then a defined space before the illegible others. Oh, my God. Was that her last name? Did I just find her name? I reached for my phone, snapped a photo and attached it to an email to Yoshio, asking for translation. I held the document and stared at the marks.

  “Abracadabra,” I whispered, because, like magic, I’d finally found the key that could unlock my father’s “other life.”

  Her name.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Japan, 1957

  A fog has settled low and blankets the ground. Father has business matters and I am to travel for tests, so we walk toward the train station together. There, we will part since Father’s work in Yokohama and the maternity home in Hiratsuka are in opposite directions. The haze paints the landscape in inky, muted pigments that only heighten the stark silence between us.

  This road is endless.

  Because I carry this child, Father carries the small suitcase Grandmother insisted I bring. She said, “Better to have the sweater and suffer its load than have gooseflesh and suffer the chill.” I suffer either way.

  If Father was the rock, then Okaasan was the appeasing water that over time softened and shaped it. Now he sits in an empty riverbed taking on the full scorch of the sun. The shadow under each eye tinges dark. Behind his eyes he carries pain.

  We are both responsible.

  He clears his throat but says nothing. Only Grandmother’s meddlesome foxes entertain conversation. I swear they whisper as we pass, “Who will tell Hajime where you are? What will he think when he learns you must care for Kenji? What if you lose his baby?”

  I agree to go to ensure my baby’s well-being, but I’m wrecked with worry. Calm thoughts, Naoko. My baby is fine. Hajime loves me. He will show Kenji compassion. Together, we can discuss with Father what to do.

  “Naoko.” Father’s pace slows. He draws out his steps with an arduous sigh as we near the station, then stops. “Do what they say in all matters of your health. Do not be stubborn. Do you understand?”

  Our eyes meet, mine guilty, his compassionate. He has concern for me, but what of my baby? To ask is a temporary shame. Not to ask, an eternal one.

  “Father, I...” Where to begin? There is much to say.

  My hesitation robs the chance. His gaze moves past me and sets rigid again. I turn to what has captured his attention. My heart skitters.

  Satoshi?

  My head snaps back. “What is this?”

  Father’s hand rises to settle my protest. “He believes you have taken ill and a family doctor cannot travel to see you. Satoshi will serve as chaperon to where it is convenient.”

  “But, Father, I—”

  “Enough.” His hand chops the air. “This is not negotiable.” Father’s tone reclaims its stern edge as he gives the crane’s word, the final say from someone in authority to settle a difficult debate.

  I glare my displeasure in silence. Anything I voice will only splash water on the sweltering rock—a wasted effort.

  “Think of your brother, this family, and accept.” Father sets my bag down and speaks under his breath, exasperated. “Accept, Naoko.”

  Accept.

  When will he accept Hajime and our baby? Me?

  * * *

  The train follows the scenic coast of the Sagami Bay to the rebuilt Kanagawa Prefecture of Hiratsuka—a small city nearly destroyed twelve years ago by air raids at the end of the war. Its strategic location and vast beaches were a planned ground invasion site, but it ended and spared the surviving residents this added humiliation.

  After thirty minutes Satoshi and I exit with the small crowd. I’ve not spoken to him until now. “Why did you agree to escort me?” I plant my feet on the platform.

  “You should not travel alone.” Satoshi switches my suitcase from one hand to the other, then nods for me to follow him outside.

  The air still holds a light layer of fog as we begin the straight walk to the Take Josan-shō, Bamboo Maternity Home. It clings to the simple structures that line the town’s main road and paints them mottled gray.

  “But how is my travel your concern?” I ask, matching his stride. I have no idea what I hope to accomplish. Maybe to make him furious so he turns, gets back on the train and leaves. Maybe just because I’m mad at Father for forcing me to leave in the first place. “You know I am now married?”

  “Yes, I know this.” Satoshi pauses, waiting for a barefoot man on a bicycle to pass before crossing the uneven road.

  “And still you oblige my father’s request?”

  “I did not think it necessary to cause him embarrassment.” He shrugs.

  I am the one embarrassed. Heat warms my neck, then boils to anger. I lift my chin to challenge. “Do you also know I am pregnant?”

  Satoshi stops. His eyes remain forward.

  I circle in front of him. “I am not meeting a family physician like Father told you. I am to meet a midwife.” With the matter settled, I turn smug and start walking. Now he can leave. I spin to reclaim my suitcase, but startle. He is right at my heel.

  “All the more reason for an escort, wouldn’t you agree?” His brows arch over his direct gaze. “Especially with an absent husband.” Suitcase in hand, he moves past me.

  Who does he think he is? “He is on his ship in Formosa but will return any day.” Satoshi is no better than Obaachan or Father. I scramble between a woman with a young child and an older man in a tattered coat to walk beside him.

  Satoshi glances sideways. “So, you do not know?” He blows out a breath and places his free hand within his pocket. He slows his pace. “I wondered if your father informed you. This is what I wanted to discuss with you. Remember, at your mother’s service?”

  The day is a blur and my father told me nothing. My blank stare is answer enough.

  “I don’t have all the specifics, but tensions over Taiwan have again escalated and a US Navy ship on patrol was caught in accidental cross fire.”

  “What ship?” The question is out before I have thought to ask it. “What ship, Satoshi?” I grip his forearm, heart pounding, imagining the worst.

  He shakes his head. “I am not sure. But do not worry, it may just mean a possible delay.” He places a hand over mine and squeezes.

  I yank away as if burned, embarrassed to have placed it there in the first place.

  “Please.” Satoshi glances to my middle and sighs. “For the baby’s sake, accept my friendship and let me escort you the rest of the way.” He motions ahead. “See? The clinic’s bamboo fence is just there.”

  Tall golden slats woven together go on as far as I can see. My eyes skitter sideways to Satoshi and narrow at my father’s word. Accept.

  “For the baby’s sake,” I say, and begin a worried stroll, twisting a strand of hair between finger and thumb. Of course Father did not mention any news of conflict in the Straits. Why would he? He would prefer Hajime never to return. My skin bumps. What if he doesn’t?

  A large entry with a crossbeam support and rusted brackets mark the entrance. There is a small Bonshō-temple-styled bell with embossed bamboo design for visitors to ring, but the gate is open. Satoshi swings it wide, then steps aside for me to lead. Out of respect, I grasp the suspend
ed wooden beam and ring it once before we enter. Like the larger temple bells, the low, clear tone resonates to carry over a great distance to announce our arrival.

  The uneven pebbled path winds like a serpent through dense woodland. The trail is well-tended with the encroaching forest pruned back, but the profuse groundcover tells me it is not well-traveled. I am careful with each step, almost stumbling over a raised stone. Satoshi reaches for my arm to steady me, but I’ve already found my footing and make a show of not needing his assistance.

  Through the trees, I can make out bronze tiles of a roof. Squinting, I try to pinpoint more details. “I thought this was a clinic. It looks more like a house.”

  Satoshi shrugs. He would not know of these things any more than I do. The path drops down an incline to swallow both the structure ahead and the street behind. Under the heavy canopy, we enter a hidden world between. Quiet, except for trilling birds and katydids. And something else—a continuous whisper. I tilt to listen. Water.

  A small river of green appears around the corner. We climb the red wooden footbridge and pause to look over its high rails. Light dapples from above to illuminate the shallow water’s gentle flow and its many inhabitants. Butterfly koi, plump and established, meander with winged fins of gold, white and black. It is peaceful here. I watch them but cast a quick glance to Satoshi.

  Not only did he understand about Hajime, he kept his word and kept it quiet from his father to save our families’ business relationship and spare my humiliation. Then he learns I’ve married and already carry a child. And still he escorts me. My cheeks warm. Guilt pokes holes in my insolence. “I’m sorry.”

  Even if I don’t want to admit it, I’m grateful for his company and his friendship. I face him. “I am thankful for everything, Satoshi. Even that you are here. And I apologize.”

  Satoshi’s gaze stays fixed to the water, leaving my words to dangle between us. I focus on the painted fish, not sure what else to say.

  He leans his forearms on the splintered rail and clasps his hands. “There is no need for an apology, Naoko.”

  He does not want my apology? Flustered, I place my hands on my hips. “You confuse me with your opinions. I am grateful, but still...”

  “Still you wonder why I am here?” Satoshi turns to look me in the eyes. “Yes, I understand your confusion. But understand, by you, I have never been confused.” He masks a smile. “Even when you were a little girl, I understood your true nature.”

  My true nature is selfish. I look down, not wanting to face his criticism.

  “From time to time, I would see you at company gatherings with your family. You were as beautiful as your mother.”

  Without raising my chin, I glance up at Okaasan’s mention, a fever of curiosity.

  “And once, I caught you sneaking mochi.” He laughs. “Do you remember?”

  I straighten and face him; his smile is infectious. “I was sneaking rice cakes?”

  “You had one in each fist.” He pats his mouth. “And sticky sweet all around from many more. When I scolded, you shoved a cake in my hand and ran away, turning with a smile.”

  I laugh, but I do not remember.

  “The next time I saw you, you were not so little. And now...” Satoshi’s gaze lingers.

  I look away again. I am sure my cheeks burn red.

  Leaning low over the rail, he points. “You see him?”

  A fat yellow koi, bigger than the rest, with black markings on his head, swims around in the middle. I nod.

  “See how he ignores the others? He jumps and keeps himself in the center even though we drop no food. He reminds me of Rosetsu’s painted fish.” Satoshi walks again.

  “He was persistent,” I say, following him to the winding path that now climbs up. I think of the story. Rosetsu found himself near a pond of koi. He watched one fat fish jumping up on the ice to retrieve a fallen treat. He bumped his head, cut his fins and lost many scales trying to nab it but never quit. “Rosetsu marveled at its determination.”

  Satoshi peers sideways, nodding. “Yes, I’m like Rosetsu and you are—”

  “Like the fish?” My lip pulls up with my displeasure.

  Satoshi laughs and then lowers his chin. “Persistent. I mean to say you are persistent. And like Rosetsu, I admire your efforts. You still have your own mind just like when you stole rice cakes as a child.”

  My cheeks warm again but my discomfort is short-lived and replaced by curiosity. Ahead, the trees open to a clearing and at the far end sits the one-storied clinic. A planked wood deck wraps the entire face, and the surrounding grounds, while clipped and manicured, lack ornamentation.

  Before we reach the entrance, a middle-aged woman approaches with quick steps as though she’s been waiting. Her hair is pulled in a tight twist and her shoulders hunch to swallow her neck. The woman’s eyes flick from Satoshi to me behind round-rimmed glasses. “I am Housemother Sato. You are Nakamura Naoko?”

  I bow. “Ohayou, yes, I am Naoko.” I open my mouth to say something about Eyako, the midwife who sent me here, or Grandmother, but nothing else comes out. Why is she staring at Satoshi?

  “Registration papers? You have them?” The woman waves her empty hand for me to fill, eyes still darting between us.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I do.” I retrieve the envelope from my pocket and hold it out.

  She snatches it and opens it to count the payment. “Ah...okay, then you may come inside. But not him.” She gives another look of confusion to Satoshi, then in haste returns to the clinic, leaving us to bid farewell.

  “I can wait at the gate to escort you home, if you like?” Satoshi hands me my small suitcase.

  I am tempted but tell him no. “You have done too much already, and it could be hours,” I say, putting on a brave face, then offering a small bow. “Thank you for your kindness, Satoshi. I will not forget it.”

  He returns the gesture. “Just remember you are the persistent fish, Naoko. And know that I admire your fight.”

  My fight.

  Pregnant and alone, and now with news of a possible delay for Hajime’s ship, I fear I may need it.

  TWENTY-TWO

  America, Present Day

  Travel the world to search but return home to find it.

  The quote came to mind because I’d been searching the world online for kanji meanings from the comfort of home. If you could call my apartment home. In caring for my father, I had spent most of my time at his place instead of my own. With his passing, I wasn’t sure I’d remain in the area. One benefit of journalism is you could write from anywhere.

  As though on cue, the crooning of an Italian melody drifted up from the waterway below. Although I lived in the Midwest, the downtown featured a man-made canal with an intended Venetian charm. The city even hired an Old World gondolier to serenade passengers on the weekends. I waved as he passed under my balcony. He tipped his hat without missing a note. It was always the same song, “O Sole Mio.” A story of love and sun and beautiful days. For that, there was no translation needed.

  Unlike the Japanese symbols I’d been trying to decrypt. Kanji didn’t form sounds, so were they word pictures? One had a line with an overlapped rectangle that looked like a square-rigged sail, and the other two marks resembled swords.

  I had to restrain myself from contacting Yoshio over the weekend for an update but couldn’t stop checking my email for his reply. I’d become obsessed, frustrated at having to wait. Had the kanji been digital in the first place, I could’ve pasted them into my browser and translated it right away.

  I tried various applications to get a translation, but they didn’t recognize the symbols. I then searched for online kanji charts only to learn there were eighty thousand in the Japanese vocabulary. Even the shortcut graphic showing just the most common contained over two thousand. I had three kanji and not one probable match.

  I rubbed at my ey
es, tired from staring at the laptop screen, then checked for Yoshio’s email again. Nothing.

  With a sip of coffee, I gazed at the crowd walking along the canal below. People crossed the concrete footbridge in droves, like shoals of colorful fish all moving in the same direction.

  I never could follow the masses. Instead, I pushed against the current and forged my own lane. Stubborn independence that often got me into trouble. I took another sip of coffee and stifled a laugh. Like father, like daughter. By choosing to marry a Japanese girl in the 1950s, Pops exemplified taking “the road less traveled.”

  An irony, since many misinterpreted Frost’s poem. One understanding of the last stanza claims the traveler was reflecting on how, in life, we create fictions, assigning meaning to what was nothing more than a string of random selections. My father crafted stories, but his choices were anything but arbitrary. He elected to marry the Japanese girl, and he chose not to share that part of his life until near the end. They were conscious decisions. And I had to start accepting it.

  According to my research, the Affidavit to Marry served as legal proof of eligibility, one step short of a license. It required both parties’, a witness’s and a notary’s signatures, and the family’s signed consent if either participant was under the age of eighteen.

  The form carried my father’s signature, the bride’s, an embossed seal and another set of marks next to that. It was either a witness or a parent. But why would the girl’s parents grant permission when they hadn’t even allowed Pops to stay for tea? Pops signed the letter Hajime. Maybe her parents didn’t know he was American. What a mess that must have been.

  I typed “translate Hajime to English” in my browser. It meant begin. Then I selected the sound icon to hear the pronunciation. “Ha-je-mit.” I typed “James” and repeated the steps. “Jam-a-se.” I then did the same with “Jimmy,” what Pops went by in his youth. “Ji-me.”