The Woman in the White Kimono Page 16

  “Lungs like the mother,” I say, but no one laughs this time, not even Chiyo. My smile drops as my eyes take in the girls’ somber expressions. No one looks at me but Hatsu. Her sadness is no longer hidden. She has tears. The skin on my arms bump.

  “What is it?” I ask Hatsu, leaning forward. I am answered by silence.

  There is a stillness all around.

  My head slants to listen.

  Why isn’t the baby crying?

  Everyone is frozen, holding their breath. Hatsu sighs. Is the baby feeding? Little ones enter the world hungry. A sharp tremor climbs my spine. The floor squeaks. Quick footsteps grow loud, then fade. Another creak and then soft cries. These are not from the baby.

  They come from the mother.

  “Why is Yoko crying?” I ask in a whisper, but my insides scream. What happened to the baby? What happened to the baby?

  Muffled voices bounce off the walls, then heavy walking. I search each of the girls’ faces for answers. Jin studies the floor. Hatsu stares into nothing. Aiko and Chiyo look to one another and then without a word they all stand and move toward the door.

  “Wait. Chiyo?”

  She looks back as the others file out. Her red lips pull up in a sneer. “What do you think, Naoko? We all have handsome husbands we can trick into marriage?” She huffs a breath and slides the door shut behind her.

  My heart pounds heavy in my chest. My hands shake. The prickling of tears burns the corners of my eyes. She cannot mean... I must have misunderstood. Yes, of course I did. But everything inside me fears the worst.

  On all fours, I crawl to the partitioned wall, place my ear close and listen. I listen for the baby. I need to hear this baby.

  I listen for its cries over the mother’s.

  Over my own.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Japan, Present Day

  Less than a week after Yoshio contacted me about the property and family name, I had boarded a Boeing 777 and headed east. The plane taxied, pushed off and within minutes cut through morning clouds. I settled in for the sixteen-hour flight, but never settled down.

  Instead, I watched movies, charted the plane’s route with the on-board app and leaned against the window to peer into heaven. Was my father out there watching? Would my trip to Japan make him happy? I knew the way I paid for it wouldn’t.

  When my father first drove the Caddy home, my mother wasn’t convinced of the flashy extravagance, claiming it was too big and expensive. “We already own a reliable car,” she’d said, but Pops cited the $7,500 purchase—promoted as GM’s crown jewel—as a winning investment. Turned out, he was right.

  A 1958 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz convertible in pristine condition could fetch between seventy and two hundred thousand dollars from serious collectors. I landed somewhere in between. It was more than enough for the trip and expenses, but the guilt was almost more than I could bear.

  When they loaded my father’s prized Caddy onto the flatbed truck and drove it away, I stood in the drive and cried. I’d sold the one thing of value passed down to me.

  But in the end, the chance to restore my father’s character, my memories of him, my trust in everything I’d known, and to understand what happened, was worth more.

  I just wished I knew what to expect.

  Yoshio still waited on property tax records to reveal the homeowner’s name, but he’d acquired the home’s reassigned address and promised to travel to Zushi and try to arrange a tour and interview. While I was grateful for his help, he didn’t share the house numbers, and that small oversight had the journalist in me on high alert. Yoshio—an accredited reporter in his own right—understood the moment I had the information he was out of the mix. And since I didn’t write human interest or lifestyle pieces—my best guess was he smelled a story.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he and I chased after the same one. We’d both been pursuing an interview with the then director general of the IAEA, but I’d landed it. When it was picked up internationally, Yoshio switched sides and wrote an opposing piece to discredit mine that garnered just as much traction.

  Not that I blamed Yoshio then or now. Journalism was a game of information, one we both played to make our living. Plus, I only informed him this research was off the record, and I hadn’t stated why. I planned to explain more when we met for lunch in Tokyo. I’d just need to be judicious in how I approached him and with what I shared.

  Somewhere behind me a baby cried, and with the captain’s announcement, the fasten seat belts light came on. My ears popped with the gradual descent. I folded my seat tray, packed up my things, then lifted my window shade.

  Narita International Airport was an hour outside of Tokyo, so there were no stunning views of the megacity and, with the hazy sky, no glimpse of Mount Fuji in the horizon. Only snaking water channels, clustered buildings and the characteristic patchwork quilt of land. But instead of the agriculture grid of the Midwest, it resembled a sprawling golf course of sand traps and water hazards. I leaned closer to the double-walled glass, narrowing my eyes to focus. The fields were submerged. I’d thought the rainy season had ended? As we neared, the shallow pools with muddy bottoms came into focus—they were rice paddies. I jostled from turbulence, then gripped the chair handle, braced to land.

  After the long flight and with the fourteen-hour time difference, I arrived in Japan exhausted. I turned in my landing card, health form and customs declaration, then stood in long lines to process through immigration where they snapped my photo, collected two fingerprints and an eye scan and recorded my temperature. I was grateful my phone’s network was supported, but frustrated by the navigation app—it pointed me toward the trains when my hotel, located on airport grounds for convenience, required a shuttle.

  An hour later, finally checked in, I swallowed a sedative and, as soon as my head hit the pillow, prayed for the sweetest of mercies...sleep.

  The following morning, I found myself aboard the crowded Narita Express train, but with the spacious seats, spotless interior and beautiful views, the frustrations of extended travel were long forgotten. From my window seat, I took in the rich rural landscape of Chiba Prefecture while traveling to the most populated metropolis in the world—Tokyo.

  The high-speed rail cut through marshy fields of rice and expansive rows of green, skirting the edges of sleepy village towns that, according to my travel app, were saturated in history. In one, a Dutch windmill surrounded by acres of seasonal flowers—a goodwill gift from the Netherlands to celebrate four hundred years of trade. Another was the hidden city of Samurai. Had my father stopped to see the castle ruins? Did he walk the secret paths and tour the few remaining homes of those sworn to protect it?

  Once we crossed the water, the scenery changed from rural green to city gray with tall, thin buildings all fighting for the same space. Through the distortion of the train’s curved glass, they welcomed me with a midwaist bow. I considered myself well-traveled, but nothing I had seen compared to Tokyo—not Chicago in size, nor New York in congestion.

  The skyline was spectacular.

  I verified my stop on the four-language screen, eyed my luggage, then readied myself for release. Outside, the humidity hit me first, then the realization—my father had been here. I was stepping into his stories and onto a literal map. Instead of pinned locations to trace his other life, I’d follow in his footsteps. The skin on my arms bumped.

  The restaurant Yoshio selected wasn’t more than a few minutes’ walk from the station, but I arrived early to take in the sights. In true tourist fashion, I snapped several photos of the station’s redbrick exterior and gilded, peaked crown. Then I stepped back and took several more. The architecture, albeit beautiful with the stone facing and decorative reliefs, looked European. It belonged in Italy or Britain, not in the capital of Japan.

  Buildings covered every inch of land and people crowded every space between. There were m
ore vending machines than trees, and while the city itself gleamed spotless and trash free, the sky was littered with billboards. I leaned back, trying to imagine their neon at night.

  There was intrigue everywhere. An electronic bird chirped as I crossed the street. I stopped, trying to locate the source. A group of rainbow-dressed teens gestured to the device above the crosswalk screen and smiled. I smiled in return. No translation needed.

  Electronic menus offered everything from fish cakes to tofu, and when passing street vendors, I learned not to look too long and risk the obligation to taste.

  I expected the old to somehow stand with the new, like in Europe, where the Colosseum and the Trevi Fountain rested among boutique hotels and kitschy shops. There, everywhere you turned, the modern world rubbed elbows with its past. You sensed history. Felt it on your skin. Breathed it in the air.

  But not in Tokyo.

  Tokyo shined brand-new as though it had just stepped out of a traditional bathhouse, its history scrubbed clean.

  I just hoped my visit could do the same for my father.

  “Hello, Tori? Tori Kovač?”

  I spun around to find Yoshio waving just outside the restaurant door. Of course he recognized me. I wasn’t hard to miss. First, I had my luggage; also Tokyo, like all of Japan, was almost singularly Japanese. While not uncomfortable in my skin, for the first time I was acutely aware of it. I smoothed out my gray trousers and straightened my short-sleeved button-up. It was hot enough for a sleeveless shell, but shoulders were covered in Japan. “Hello. Yoshio?”

  He looked just like his bio pic. Midforties, with a square jaw and a wide, confident grin. I extended my hand, uncertain, but he shook it, then clasped his other hand on top, and shook it again.

  “Please... I have a table reserved.” He opened the restaurant door, then followed me inside. “Did you enjoy the train ride through the countryside?”

  “It was beautiful.” I widened my eyes, trying to adjust to the dimmed lighting. “And not as packed as I imagined,” I added, slowing so he could lead the way.

  “Oh, yes, but you rode on the express. Had you ridden the commuter and traveled during rush hour, it would be a different story. There are so many people, the white-gloved Oshiya are hired to push passengers onto the train.” He motioned to a short-legged wooden table with red circle floor cushions situated along the far wall. “Away from the sun and noisy street, so we may have comfortable conversation.”

  I was already uncomfortable. There was a lot riding on this conversation. I tucked my carry-on beside me next to the wall while Yoshio and the hostess spoke in Japanese.

  “Please allow me to order for you?” Yoshio turned toward me to ask. “I promise you will not be disappointed. It is a world-famous cuisine.”

  The street vendor’s sample came to mind, the odd texture I’d barely managed to swallow down, but I gave a nod and smiled, anyway, refusing to fall into the stereotypical caricature of the difficult American. I knew better from other travels abroad. In Italy, when I attempted to convey my food preferences, I was told in no uncertain terms by the short Italian cook, “You eat what Mama makes.” And that was that.

  With tea served and orders taken, we made polite small talk. He inquired if the hotel met my expectations. And I, in turn, asked questions about his remarkable city.

  “Did you see Shibuya Crossing’s traffic lights?” Yoshio asked. “They all switch red at once. In an instant, people pour onto the road from every direction like glass marbles spilling from a bag.”

  Discussions of the house in Zushi and its owners, I knew, would have to wait. I’d read that polite conversation was the currency for information in Japan, so I bided my time and played along.

  “Renowned Kobe beef with seasoned vegetables,” the hostess announced as our food arrived. “Please, try a taste.”

  Both Yoshio and the server waited for my reaction. One bite and I understood the accolades. My eyes went wide as the meat melted on my tongue and I nodded, giving the server the assurance needed before she turned to go.

  Yoshio laughed, then whispered as though divulging a secret, “The delicate flavor is due to the pampering. The cattle are given beer to drink and receive a daily massage.”

  I laughed, too, but I was also becoming impatient. “Yoshio, I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality. I’m so excited to be here and anxious to dig into my research. You said you had news?”

  “I do, yes. Although municipalities maintain separate property registries for taxation purposes, I was able to confirm the home’s ownership.”

  I leaned in. “Is it them? The Nakamura family?”

  His smile widened. “It is. Records show the Nakamura family has paid taxes on both the home and the property for many generations.”

  “This is amazing, thank you.” It had to be the woman’s family. I found them, Pops.

  “I have a photo, if you would like to see?” He opened his messenger bag and produced an image.

  I drank it in. The large, multisquared one-story traditional home was both simple and sophisticated with exposed bamboo frames, white paneled walls and a tile gable roof. It was situated high on a hill of green but blended into the surrounding elements as if they were one. That was what I’d expected of Japan—exquisite Old World charm and timeless elegance. “Wow.” It was the best I could do.

  Yoshio gave a satisfied nod at my oversimplified reaction, eyed my almost-empty tea and refilled it while he spoke. “It’s built in the traditional Sukiya style, known for the natural and unpretentious aesthetic. The lack of superficial decoration stresses internal self-improvement while the wide eaves create peaceful shadows in which one can reflect. Teahouses were first built in this design. See how the roof and tiles curve?” He motioned to the photograph. “It’s to confuse evil spirits.”

  “Because they never travel in straight lines.” I laughed even as tears welled up. “It’s beautiful.” And matched every description of the house in my father’s tea story.

  “Can you tell me of this article you plan to write? You mentioned it was on the history of the home, but have you found something interesting on the Nakamura family?” He gave a tight-lipped smile and held it too long.

  The small hairs on my arms rose. “Have they agreed to the tour and interview?”

  “Will you not share your intent?”

  “Will you not reveal if the interview is arranged?” I jutted my chin.

  The thin smile all but vanished from Yoshio’s face. “Although you have traveled all this way, I’m sorry, Tori, but I do not think an interview will be possible.”

  My heart dropped, then quickened. “I don’t understand. Are they worried I’m going to write some exposé about them? Because I won’t.”

  “That is what you write.”

  “I write fact-based reports on large companies.”

  “That expose people of power and their controversial activities.”

  “That enlighten the public, who have a right to know. As do you, Yoshio.” I threw my shoulders back, incensed. “So, forgive me, but now I really don’t understand. Here I thought you were trying to scoop me and you’re actually protecting them?”

  He gave a blasé shrug. “I am simply curious of your intent.”

  “I knew it.” I huffed an exasperated breath. “You’re screening me because you’re curious if there’s a story.”

  “Of course.” He set his chopsticks on their rest, dabbed his mouth with the warm towel and leaned back. “And is there one?” He arched a brow.

  I shifted my legs and gave the photo of the house another glance. I wanted the address, so I’d have to tell him some of my father’s story, but there was no way to guess his reaction to such a contentious subject. “What if I told you I wasn’t planning on writing an article about the house or the family at all?”

  “I would find myself very curious indeed.”<
br />
  “May I ask a somewhat delicate question first?” With his nod, I took a deep breath, and debated where to begin. I had his full attention. I didn’t want to squander it. “The American Occupation ended when?”

  “In 1952.”

  “Yes, 1952.” Pops served from 1954 to 1957. Only two years after. “From what I’ve read, there were many children born between US servicemen and Japanese women, as well as many marriages. Is this a correct assessment?”

  “There were some marriages, yes, but they were not common and many of the babies did not survive.”

  “Didn’t survive?” My shoulders fell. “Because of...?”

  “Sickness, for one, and lack of adequate care.” Yoshio lowered his voice, leaned into the table. “Tori, the women who were in this situation found themselves alone in the world and unable to properly care for their children. Society shunned both the mother and child. Remember, Japan is rooted in ancient tradition and it was so soon after the war.”

  “War or not, it was deplorable to shun them, don’t you agree?”

  “Quite. But you must also agree that America didn’t welcome the Japanese brides their young men brought home so soon after the disbandment of Japanese internment camps and the war.”

  My mind spun back to American history: to articles and photos of Japanese war brides accused of trapping soldiers, and the Japanese Americans forced to give up their homes and businesses and imprisoned like criminals. I gave up my seat of judgment, realizing my country, just like his, had no right to sit there.

  Yoshio nodded. “So, you see? It isn’t one country or culture that holds responsibility, but one race. The human one. And such deep wounds of war take more than a single lifetime to heal. It takes many. Even now, in such modern times, it would be a difficult situation in Japan.”

  “And yet, so many babies.” I gave a small smile, attempting levity.