The Woman in the White Kimono Page 15

  Ji-me. Hajime. It contained his name, but I needed hers. I opened my email and checked again for Yoshio’s response. Finding nothing, I reopened the shortcut kanji graphic and got back to work.

  * * *

  Light edged the drawn drapes of Pops’s living room window, telling me to hurry before the donation truck arrived. I’d been at his place for hours, loading my car with belongings I wanted to keep and moving the remaining boxes into the garage for easy pickup. I still needed to remove my investigative wall. Then that was it. I’d turn off the lights and close the door of my father’s condo for the absolute last time. But I wasn’t ready to close out his life.

  My father died, but I had become the ghost. It was my restless spirit that lingered and couldn’t leave well enough alone. How could I? Like a house, we build foundations from family, and from experience, we construct our walls. But when the ground shifts under your feet as mine had? The father I thought I knew was now someone else. The family I grew up in had expanded to include another. Regardless of your age, that changes you.

  It changed me.

  Knowing what I did about my father, it must have changed him, too.

  I gazed at the oversize map of Japan. Then, with care, I detached the articles of historical interest I’d printed, the snapshots of my father in the navy and the crew, including the picture of his Japanese bride, and placed them all in a large envelope for safekeeping.

  I removed the location pins next. And as I did, I retraced my father’s life. From the crest of a giant wave to where he slammed into the Great Divide, to the massive anchor at the gate of the base, to a street of blue where he first saw her, his future, and fell in love.

  One thumbtack remained. The coastal town of Zushi, where just beyond the bustling marinas and up a small hill sat the traditional house that time forgot.

  Had Yoshio forgotten about my request? I’d been patient through the weekend, and though it was early Monday morning here, it was well into the evening in Japan. I dug out my phone, selected email, placed my finger on “compose,” but caught sight of his reply. Finally.

  Dear Tori Kovač,

  Wishing you sunshine as the rainy season comes to an end.

  I regret my delayed response, but I am happy to provide the following information.

  First, regarding the translation you requested. is the family name Nakamura, which means “middle village” and one of the most common surnames in Japan, much like your Jones or Smith in America.

  Concerning the property, please know that, in Japan, addresses are distributed in the order homes are built, and due to Zushi’s rapid and continual growth, the postal codes have shifted many times. As you have discovered, the address you provided no longer exists, but according to my source within the Land Ministries department, the home does. I expect to have a copy of the official record with updated address soon.

  Please understand, this document of the house will not reveal the family’s name if ownership has not changed hands, as full disclosure on existing land and property is not a legal requirement in Japan. However, paying property tax is, and I have made several inquiries. The name might also be obtained through direct contact with the current owners, and I would be happy to inquire on your behalf should you desire an interview and tour of the home.

  I look forward to your response.

  Wishing you continued health,

  Sincerely,

  Itō Yoshio

  I paced the room, my mind three steps ahead. The woman’s last name was Nakamura and Yoshio found her house. They might still own it. Or maybe not, but if he approached whoever did, they could offer key information. I smiled to myself, giddy from the idea, but then I was stopped by a thought—an interview. I raked my hand through my hair, leaving it there.

  I’d have to present myself under the guise of being interested in the property and its history and use the pseudonym I wrote under. No need to unload my father’s past unless it was required. If it were the same family living in that house, would they even talk to me? What would I say to the woman? How would I even begin to explain? Had she told her daughter about Pops?

  I dropped my hand and straightened.

  While I’d been digging for truths within my father’s life, I never expected to confront them, nor had I considered what it meant to mine.

  I might find my sister.

  Would she look like Pops? I had his thick dark hair that curled in the humidity, and although my eyes weren’t as translucent, they were also light blue. Were hers? Unlikely, but she might have his dimpled chin and angular jaw. She might even resemble me.

  I paced again. A mindless walk through imagined scenarios and possibilities. While I was playing catch with Pops in the backyard, or running through a sprinkler to dive onto a slip-’n-slide, what was she doing? Did she have birthday parties and go on family road trips? Did she have a good life?

  I never went without, because my father as a child often had. As an adult, he’d insisted Mama spend a small fortune every week on groceries. I remembered our pantry, fridge and an extra freezer in the basement always stocked and overflowing because “his” child would never go hungry. She was also Pops’s child, so had she? They might be angry at him and resent me. My jaw clenched. They might have good reason to.

  Let them. I unpinned the last item from the wall—my father’s letter. Unlike my father, who looked up from Blue Street and saw his future in the girl’s eyes, I’d stare into hers and hand her the envelope that held my father’s past. Then she’d know the regret in his heart by reading his words. Maybe that was what Pops wanted from me.

  I turned the letter over in my hands. Had I known what secrets it contained, how they would reshape and color my view of the world, of my father, would I have opened it? I opened it now and reread his words. In loving you, I’ve never had a single regret. But in losing you? In the how and the why? So many.

  I was still waiting for my father’s military records, but those might only offer a confirmation of marriage. I already had the marriage document, the letter, a name and, soon, the address, so what else did I need?

  The how and the why.

  And that required a ticket. I’d need to go in person, talking over the phone would never work. And if her family no longer owned the house, the new residents might have information that could lead me to them. I had to know. I had to do this for my father and for me, but how? In caring for Pops, I’d lived off my savings and only worked in spurts. A lump formed in my throat as I considered my finances, how bills were stacking up and my savings had dwindled. I couldn’t afford to go.

  I gazed at my father’s letter, reread his words, then fixed on the only word that mattered—daughter.

  I couldn’t afford not to.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Japan, 1957

  The maternity home is large, clean and filled with a pleasant scent. Sandalwood and maybe clove. The incense wafts in a steady stream from a white ceramic burner. Although agreeable, I do not like it. I do not like anything about this place. I am half tempted to turn around and chase after Satoshi. Why did I dismiss his offer to wait?

  A young girl not old enough for marriage, but ripe in pregnancy, appears. She is unadorned and with a child’s haircut—short with a blunt, heavy fringe. Her plain everyday kimono folds askew under her belly’s swell and hangs awkward. Does no one help her dress? She does not say a word, just stares with big, curious eyes.

  A high-pitched shriek curdles the air from the rear of the house. I spin to face its direction and find Housemother Sato instead. She walks with hurried steps, wiping hands with fervor on an unhemmed tenugui cloth.

  “A baby arrives today,” she says matter-of-factly. “Jin, take Naoko to the empty room.” She snaps to me. “You are to stay there, understand?” She turns without my answer, but barks over her shoulder, “And the baby’s father cannot return to visit. Only girls are allowed he
re.”

  She thinks Satoshi is the father?

  The girl named Jin waves me to follow as shrieks tear through the walls. Another girl, also pregnant, runs through the hall with her arms bursting with towels. We pass two more. They gape in my direction. One, about my age, is just starting to show. The other, like Jin, is ripe and ready, but older.

  The cries vibrate my bones. I have never been present during labor. Because Okaasan had a difficult pregnancy, she delivered Kenji in a hospital. My stomach drops. I wish she were here now. I wish they would perform the tests and send me home.

  Jin slides the farthest door open and steps aside to allow me through. She closes it and disappears without a word.

  The space is small. It is partitioned by a shoji rice-paper divider wall. There is a futon. A table. A sumi-e painting—a simple stalk with split leaves with seamless shading. The light transitions to dark, evoking a subtle dialogue between the two.

  The not-so-silent shouts continue from the next room over.

  Moving to the thin cushion, I sit and rub away the tension above my eyes. Since Housemother Sato is busy with the delivery, there is nothing for me to do but wait.

  The shrieks grow louder. Lying back, I listen wide-eyed and stare at the exposed ceiling. The bamboo beams weave high above me. I count them two dozen times, thinking of my baby, Okaasan, Hajime. Is he okay? What has become of his ship? Will they encounter additional delays? The screams come faster, even before I get to the last row.

  Eyes squeezed shut, I plug my ears with my fingers to mute out the cries. They echo from my hollow insides. My hands cover my face to hide the tears. I just want to know my baby is healthy and go home. I am tired by it all.

  The door slides. “Girl. Girl.”

  Looking over, I see Jin with a food tray. Behind her, peering over her shoulder, is another. She is the one who speaks. Not as young or cute but far from plain. With midlength hair set in big waves and lips painted bright red, she is hard to miss.

  Self-conscious, I right myself and wipe at my eyes. Only here for a few hours, and I am crying like the baby they try to deliver.

  “Please...” I wave them in, then smooth my shirt to tidy myself.

  Jin carries the platter over her protruding belly. Without a word, she bows, then places it in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I say, but Jin fails to acknowledge me and instead turns on her heel and leaves.

  “Do not mind her. She hardly talks,” the new girl says. “She is next to deliver and will leave soon, so what does it matter?” Without waiting for an invitation, she plops down beside me and points to the food. “Lemon Ban-cha tea to make you feel better, and Housemother Sato had me prepare a special late lunch. See?”

  Cold udon noodles and simmered dipping broth make up the meal. “Arigatō gozaimasu. I am actually a little hungry.” I manage a smile and nod.

  “Pretty soon you will always want something. So, eat up before Housemother begins watching every bite.” She inspects her nails as she talks, picking at the chipped red polish. “You cannot gain too much, or you will cost too much.”

  I look up surprised, because I am not staying.

  “Do not worry, I always sneak extras and can share. Oh, I am Chiyo. Chiyoko, but I am not a child anymore, am I?” She smiles wide with crowded teeth and pats her small rounded belly.

  It is a decent little bump, and if I were to guess I would say she is in her fifth or sixth month, but I am not sure.

  “Naoko, right? Yeah, I read your papers. You come from Zushi, well-off family, and...” The smile slides from her face. It’s replaced by a nose wrinkle and disdain. “There is talk you have a handsome husband.” She huffs.

  It does not surprise me that Grandmother informed the midwife of my marriage. It is to protect my reputation as much as our family name. And I am certain she sent Satoshi as an escort to give the impression my husband is Japanese. I paste on a smile and change the subject. “So, who is everyone?”

  “Oh...” Chiyo looks up and tallies the home’s occupants. “Jin—the simple girl you already met. Aiko—who is like me, into fashion and everything modern. There is Yoko, the one shouting, so she should not count, and Hatsu.” She rolls her eyes. “Hatsu is a bore and thinks she is smarter than everyone, so we ignore her.”

  The mouth is the front gate of all misfortune, so I nod, then raise my bowl and fill mine before I speak and add more.

  Chiyo leans close. “You and I will be the last to leave since we are not as far along. So, we will be great friends, yes?”

  “Oh...” I swallow fast. Last to leave? “No, I am here only for the day, maybe overnight if she can’t see me right away. The midwife, Eyako, sent me for tests to make sure my baby is okay. Is she here?”

  Chiyo’s red lips grimace. “Who’s Eyako? Housemother Sato is the only midwife. Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “Oh, yes, maybe.” I sip on my tea, trying not to appear unsettled. It does not matter, as long as the tests confirm my baby is healthy, then I can leave. Soon.

  Another yell fills the house.

  Chiyo keeps talking. She tells me how her family is old-fashioned and boring (everyone is boring to Chiyo), and she does not care if she had to abandon school because she plans to go to Paris or maybe America. I smile, grateful for the company, but confused by her words.

  She never mentions her baby.

  * * *

  No midwife comes to check on me. Not Eyako, who Chiyo does not know, or Housemother Sato, who is still busy. The screaming girl, Yoko, has yet to deliver. She has been in labor since my arrival, and we are now into the early night, poor thing. The girls have been my only visitors. One by one they file in to talk and hold vigil.

  We sit on the tatami mat, all five of us huddled together, all five of us pregnant. I imagine it is quite a sight. I am the new student, popular for the moment while everyone sizes me up. I try to figure them out, too. Who is friendly? Who is most like me? Who should I be careful of? Although, soon, I will leave, so what does it matter?

  The cries from the other room go on and on. They cut through the air with a guttural force strong enough to make me cringe.

  Housemother Sato’s impatience carries through the walls, as well. “Push!” she yells over the cries. “You must push harder!”

  I cover my ears. “I do not think I want to give birth.”

  The girls laugh. Chiyo is the loudest. She thinks everything I say is clever. But they are not all friends who laugh with you, so I keep one eye open just in case.

  Chiyo motions to Jin, who sits across from me. “That is you next, Jin. Will we finally hear your muted voice? Will you make even one tiny sound?”

  Jin does not respond. Her cheeks are pink from constant embarrassment. Is she even fourteen? Maybe younger. I dare not ask how she came into this condition.

  “Oh, yes, she will yell. Maybe louder than us all.” Aiko sits between us. She’s twenty-three, the oldest, and six and a half months along. She’s put together head to toe with gelled and pinned hair like the girls I see hanging around the American base, modern and Western in style. No wonder Chiyo idolizes her. I understand the appeal. Aiko is glamorous, even while pregnant. Although the look accentuates Aiko’s delicate features, it highlights Chiyo’s lack of them. She tries too hard.

  Hatsu, the one Chiyo says is a bore, is eighteen and begins her seventh month. With high cheekbones and long lashes, she is pretty without makeup, which might make Chiyo jealous and explains the contempt. There is also a sadness about her.

  Hatsu pats Jin’s leg. “Do not worry. I bet your birth is the easiest.” She nods, then tucks her thin straight hair behind each ear.

  “So, Naoko.” Aiko looks to the other girls, then stabs me with her made-up eyes.

  I stiffen for an instant, wary of her tone and already aware her beauty resides only on the surface.

  She smirks. “W
e are told you are married and according to Jin he is very handsome.” She drags the word so Jin feels the impact.

  “I did not say that!” Jin takes a big breath, her cheeks flushed.

  “What? What, Jin?” Aiko leans in, invading Jin’s space, her hand cupped to her ear. Her playful manner has a biting edge. “Are you saying I am lying? I am a liar? I bet you lied that she is married, too.”

  Jin looks down, frustrated. Lips puckered tight, she shakes her head.

  “Thank you, Jin,” I say with a smile, trying to lessen Aiko’s hold on her and divert their attention. “I think he is handsome, too. And yes, Jin spoke the truth. I am married.”

  It works, all eyes point in my direction. Jin glances up but looks away.

  “I do not believe her, either.” Aiko talks to Chiyo as if they deliberated it. Discussed me. “She is no different than the rest of us.”

  “I am married.” I shake my head, confused by this turn.

  Screaming pulsates through the walls followed by the housemother’s yells to push.

  “Then why are you here?” Aiko rallies to the others. “Am I right?”

  I want to yell. My cheeks burn. I am sure they rival Jin’s. “I am here for tests. I had some bleeding, spotting, really, but Eyako, the midwife, thought—”

  “No.” Chiyo huffs, eyes darting from Aiko to me. “She means, why are you here?”

  “Ah, maybe she tricked him. Maybe it is not his.” Aiko’s lips curl.

  Before I can protest, another shriek stabs the night, louder and longer. We all look at one another with wide eyes. There is a long pause.

  Then we hear the cries of a baby.

  I laugh. It is like a bell. If given a soft tap, you will only get a tiny ping. Strike hard and you will receive a strong resounding peal. This baby rings loud. I am here. It demands everyone’s attention.

  My hands cover my smile. For the moment, I have forgotten the accusations and want to run in there to welcome this new little life. Will we all get to hold him? This will be a nice diversion and good practice. I imagine the day my baby arrives and how excited Hajime will be. I picture him with a wide, beaming smile.