The Woman in the White Kimono Page 18

  Hatsu steps closer, her voice is steady, but detached. “She is a woman of business, Naoko. She profits from those like us by providing a hidden place to avoid shame and family dishonor. And for those who cannot afford her fees, she charges only once. For delivery and disposal.”

  Disposal.

  The word is a knife, puncturing my resolve. My tears fall of their own will. I wipe under my nose and sniff. “Why doesn’t she take the babies to this home you mention? That must have occurred to her as a better option.”

  Her brows furrow. “How many sick babies do you think that home can keep? And why?” Again, she resumes her walk. “No one wants them. Where will they live when they grow up? If they grow up. With so many unwanted babies who will only starve or die in the streets, Housemother Sato feels this is more humane for mother and child.” She steps from the woods back onto the main path and turns to me. “And maybe it is.”

  Stepping out, I shake my head. “It is not more humane.” I don’t say more. My instinct is to push through the thick forest in the other direction, regardless of the burrs. This fence ends somewhere.

  “I am married, Hatsu.” My voice shakes. I smooth the fabric over my miniswell, picking off twigs that snare it. “And my husband supports me. We have our own house, and we want this child.”

  “So, you do not live with his family?” Her eyebrows knit together, and her mouth drops open from my obvious slip of information.

  My breath falters at her words. When married, the wife moves into the husband’s family home. Of course, with Hajime, that is not possible.

  Her lips curl to a semismile. “That was not your husband, was it?”

  I only stare.

  “Come on.” She waves me forward, turning with a step. “I need to show you something.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Japan, 1957

  I trudge behind Hatsu in silence toward the maternity home, but she leads me around it. We walk a narrow, overgrown foot trail that winds through the woods in the other direction. This property is endless.

  In life, the wise make their own heaven while the fool complains of hell, but I think both are inevitable, and both are temporary. Heaven is not some place for your future spirit to rest. It is finding happiness in your current state. And likewise, there are no locks on the gates of hell; it is only suffering and only for a time.

  But there is a lock on the gate that keeps me here.

  With every step, the woods darken. The tree limbs no longer playfully hold hands. One binds the other to choke out the light. Sweat forms in tiny beads and collects in my hair even without the sun’s direct touch. I am tired and want to go home. Or rather, I want to go to my home with Hajime.

  “Hatsu...” I stop, using the back of my wrist to wipe my brow. “Hatsu, wait.”

  She pivots, her seventh-month belly cradled in one hand, her other holding a found walking stick. A branch snaps behind me. We both spin to glance along the trail.

  Nothing.

  Another rustling stirs a brown-eared bulbul bird, and it scolds us with a screech.

  Hatsu rolls her eyes and sighs. “Jin, I know you are following us. I saw you leave the house. Just come on, Housemother will not be gone long.” She continues forward.

  I wait. Sure enough, Jin appears from the brush. Our eyes meet, and she shrugs.

  “Come on!” Hatsu yells from farther up.

  We begin again. A prickle travels the length of my spine. At the base of a large tree sits a small Jizō statue. He is the Buddhist monk known in life for helping babies, and now, in spirit, helps their souls. It is said that mizuko, water children—the stillborn, miscarried and aborted—cannot cross over alone. A Jizō wears baby’s clothing, a bright red bib and cap, to show their connection. This one has none.

  Ahead, up a slight embankment, Hatsu stops. It is bright before her and the long, narrow shadows cascade off her back as though the light repels them. Jin and I climb and stand beside her. A soft breeze cools the skin, and far below in an open field, large wild red blooms decorate unkempt grasses as far as I can see. It is beautiful, but misleading.

  My heart stutters.

  I shield my eyes and squint to focus.

  The red blooms are not flowers, after all. They are markers like the one at the tree. They are Jizō statues in babies’ clothing.

  And there are hundreds.

  The concrete statues with fabric bibs and caps of red position every which way, with no set order. Some sit in neat rows, some climb the embankment, others face one another in silent judgment. From the clearing’s mouth, the earth bleeds red, and I peer into death’s pregnant, bloated belly.

  Hatsu’s mournful eyes glance at Jin, then find mine. “This is their resting place. Their bodies come here.”

  So many.

  The three of us stand in silence, staring at the tiny markers, all three of us carrying babies of our own. Hatsu with a seventh-month belly. Jin rounding nine. And me, around four.

  Tears fall hot with anger. My nostrils flare with a resolute breath. “My baby will not end up here alone and waiting to cross.”

  “No. Mixed-blood babies won’t. At least not here.” Hatsu points to a vast orchard of small strange trees. She steps down the embankment and walks in its direction, careful to maneuver around the tiny Jizō figures.

  We follow. I cannot help but stare at their stone faces as we pass. All different. This monk has chubby cheeks and closed eyes in meditation. That one scowls angry. Another sad with furrowed brows. Its bib has blown sideways from a distant wind. Some have only faces carved in ordinary boulders. No bonnets to keep them warm, and the bibs tie near the narrowed tops.

  The grove of trees holds its own secrets. We walk between them. They are not like any I have seen before. Dark gray peeling bark and leaves like spindled fingers reach to us as we pass. Some climb the sky and tower above. Most skim the top of my head.

  “They are nonnative trees from the West like the nonnative babies that rest among them. This is where those babies lie. This is their paradise.” Hatsu stops and points to a fresh pile of dirt just ahead. “Yoko’s baby...”

  My eyes widen with understanding. I spin to take in the landscape. Small mounds are scattered everywhere. So many. There are no Jizō statues to help them cross. They are not even respected in death.

  They are left unmarked and alone, forgotten.

  I clutch my belly as if to reassure the little soul within. She will not spend a single minute bound alone in darkness. Housemother Sato will not condemn my baby’s spirit to an eternity of hellish unrest.

  The cry of Yoko’s little baby fills my mind. The sound of his sudden silence breaks my heart. His tiny trapped spirit calls out. Warm tears fall one after the other from eyes that have seen too much.

  I have had all I can take. I storm to the high grass and start picking through for wildflowers, ripping them up near the roots. I will make markers for their graves.

  “Where are you going?” Hatsu calls to me.

  “I have not forgotten,” I yell to the trees, to the lost souls that cry within them. “You will cross. You all will find peace!” Disturbed bees buzz in my ears, but I wave them away, and keep reaching down, pulling and risking their sting.

  “Naoko.” Jin, or maybe Hatsu, calls my name.

  I drop to my knees, my fingers clutching bundles of grass, flowers and weeds. Everything comes out, everything rips up and everything spills. Why did Okaasan have to die? Why? “Why?” My cries fall from trembling lips. This is all too much.

  Squatting with feet flat, I lean back and tug harder on a stubborn root. Both hands wrap its thick stalk, and I rock back, pulling and screaming half sentences. “I have had it. It is all too much.” I refasten my grip and jerk harder. “I just want Hajime. Why, Haha?” Another yank. “Why?” The root snaps, and I fall over with the jolt. My back hits the ground first, then my he
ad, and I stay there and sob.

  My fist slams the earth over and over, then I dig nails into the dirt. All I can do is cry. Haha, Yoko’s baby, all these babies. How could Grandmother send me here? How could Father let her? Why hasn’t Hajime come?

  Someone sits beside me and strokes my hair. I lift my head, and Hatsu gathers me in her arms. I press my head to her belly; her hands continue to stroke my hair, and I weep.

  I weep for these babies. For mine. For me.

  But this will be the last time.

  I will weep no more.

  * * *

  Hatsu and Jin help me gather bouquets of wildflowers for Yoko’s baby. We find a stone and create a colorful wreath to place at its base. Before, I heard her baby cry, and now, I hear his spirit. With our makeshift Jizō statue, he crosses over. He finds peace.

  “I hope you never get angry at me.” Jin swishes a long-stemmed knotweed cane. A hidden smile colors her tone.

  I look up from my mindless grass-plucking and stifle a laugh. Hatsu smiles and shakes her head. The three of us sit together under a giant unfamiliar tree. The largest one in the field.

  I share with Hatsu and Jin the loss of my mother and how she brought me her treasured shiromuku to wear on my wedding day. Although Hatsu suspects Satoshi is not my husband, I am not ready to confirm this, but I do not deny it, either. Let them still believe my husband is Japanese. Sudden trust brings sudden regret, so I am careful, even among new and cherished friends.

  “Where do all the Jizō statues come from?” I ask Hatsu.

  She sets the small garland she weaves on her protruding belly and thinks. “The families either send them over or Housemother Sato charges them for their purchase.”

  “But not for these babies. They are forgotten even in death.” I look over to the unmarked mounds.

  “No, not these babies.” Hatsu continues her flower wreath. “Even if the families send money, Housemother Sato does not use it for them, so their spirits stay trapped.”

  “She is a demon midwife.” Anger drives my words. “Jin, I know you say you want your baby gone, but that...” I point to her midsection. “That is a living baby. And regardless of the pain that surrounds its conception, the baby is innocent. Maybe we can find the orphan home?” I shift my position, so I am sitting up on my knees, and take a deep breath to gain momentum and draw courage. “I say we make a pact.”

  “A pact?” Hatsu’s eyes narrow. “What kind of pact?”

  With another breath, I look to each of them. “First, I say we band together as guardians of these forgotten mixed-race babies. Each mound needs a Jizō statue—even if only homemade—so every little spirit may cross. Not one is trapped or forgotten. And second...”

  I grab a hand from each and hold them. “Let us pledge a guardianship to our unborn babies. We are charged with their care in life and in death. Let us swear here and now that Housemother Sato’s bony fingers of death will never stop their breaths and leave their spirits waiting. That if we cannot keep our babies or keep them safe, we must seek Brother Daigan, the guardian monk of babies, and allow him to take them with honor and respect to a better home.”

  Hatsu and Jin exchange dubious glances but then link their hands together, so the three of us form a circle.

  Hatsu squeezes my hand. “I promise.”

  “Me, too,” says Jin.

  “Good, then we have a solemn pact. Now we just need an escape plan.”

  For the first time since losing Okaasan, I have strength and a renewed sense of direction. I cannot change the world that we live in, but through the example of Okaasan’s courageous heart, I can change the lives of a few.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Japan, Present Day

  Before Yoshio and I parted ways at the restaurant, he gave me the photo of the traditional house in Zushi along with its new address. I tried to pay for lunch to thank him, but he wouldn’t let me.

  I found myself rather optimistic as I waited to board the Yokosuka line. Finally, there was progress. The home was registered under the name of Nakamura, the same name translated from my father’s marriage affidavit, and although the house stood empty, we’d found it, and there was a strong possibility the Nakamura Trading Company in Yokohama, with founding members from Zushi, were the owners.

  It had to be them. A trading company fit Pops’s story.

  I checked my JR rail pass, then looked around for signs to verify if I stood in the right queue. The day’s excitement and lingering jet lag made navigating the congested stations that much more confusing.

  As was the white-gloved employee pointing at trains as they pulled in and out from the platform. He wasn’t one of the white-gloved people-pushers Yoshio described earlier, and although Pops once mentioned employees leading calisthenics on the platforms, the man wasn’t exercising. No one even watched him except for me.

  I studied the odd LED blue lights attached to the overhang above him. Were those cameras that broadcast to a traffic control center?

  “Suicide lights.”

  I spun around to find a young man, blond, freckled and maybe all of twenty. He had the telltale buzz haircut of the military. He gestured to where I’d been looking. “Those lights, ma’am. They’re supposed to calm the crowds and keep people from leaping in front of the trains.”

  “Really?” I stepped back from the painted line, the only barrier before the open tracks below. I’d just read an exposé on LED streetlights and how they doubled skin cancer risks. Why did Japan believe they were calming? I gave a half smile of disbelief. “Are you sure?”

  “To be honest, I don’t rightly know.” He shrugged with a sheepish smile. “I only arrived from North Carolina this week and my designated buddy over there...” He motioned to his friend flirting with a group of Japanese girls. “Well, he could be pulling my leg.” They waved him over. “Welcome to Japan, I guess, right?” He laughed, then trotted off to join them.

  He was no different than I imagined my father had been. Young, perhaps away from home for the first time, and craving adventure. Watching them laugh and posture, I pictured the young man, older and married, telling his children tales of Japan and the girls he met there. I smiled. I hoped his story had a happy ending.

  I hoped mine did, too.

  I glanced again at my rail pass, then back to the pointing train employee. “Excuse me.” I stepped toward him while motioning to my queue. “Is that the line for Yokosuka line?”

  “Yo-kas-ka?” he asked without stopping his pointing gestures.

  I’d been mispronouncing the city name. The o was short, and the u was silent. “Yes, is that the line for the Yo-kas-ka train?”

  “Hai, Yokosuka.” He smiled, then gave a nod toward my line.

  I found most Japanese could understand basic English, but few attempted to speak it. Instead, I was met with smiles, nods and gestures. I returned to my line with confidence and searched the Nakamura Trading Company website while I waited.

  On a page designated “Company Heritage,” it explained how the family had a long history of importing manufactured goods and exporting raw materials but had recently expanded into industry. The distribution center was located near the harbor and the company was headquartered in the Minato Mirai 21 business district, a short hike from the Yokohama station. I considered calling them to set up an appointment, but my train arrived.

  The doors opened, and as a mass of people poured out, we wove between them and crowded in. Unlike the nonstop express train from Narita Airport with roomy, upholstered seats, the Yokosuka line was a standard commuter. I unfolded one of the plastic outer wall chairs but offered it to an older man who came in after me. Signs posted the rules in pictures. No smoking, eating or talking on your phone, and the elderly, injured and pregnant had priority.

  Clutching the strap above my head, I leaned into my arm, and caught the curious stare of the woman beside me, the ma
n crammed behind her and the eyes of several others. I looked around to find everyone but me faced the outer walls, so I turned. There weren’t any signs about that.

  The Yokosuka line, built over a century ago, traveled along the southwestern flank of the Miura Peninsula alongside Tokyo Bay. Not that I could see any of it. From the inside aisle, all I saw were people, and since I looked down, all I saw were shoes. I found mine were the only sandals.

  I planned to check into my hotel in Zushi, get a good night’s rest and formulate a plan, but as we approached Yokohama, where the Nakamura Trading Company was located, I gripped the handle of my carry-on luggage and found myself edging toward the door.

  * * *

  Yokohama was the second largest city by population in Japan, and its train station was a city unto itself. Both the east and west entrances connected to an underground shopping district that spanned up several levels and linked to surrounding skyscrapers.

  Once outside, I typed the Nakamura Trading Company address into my navigation app, and was on my way. I still didn’t have a plan. Had I landed an interview I would’ve prepared questions, but this was nothing short of an impromptu visit to gather information. I had one goal. Learn if the Nakamura family who founded the Nakamura Trading Company was the same family that owned the traditional home. And if they were, ask if they were available for a meeting. If Yoshio had already contacted them, I’d explain we were working together.

  The wheels of my carry-on luggage rumbled along the pavement as I walked toward Tokyo Bay. It was the largest industrialized area in Japan, and as I neared the water, the scent of development—sulfur and smog—saturated the air. And yet, everywhere you looked, there were signs for tourist fishing excursions.

  I had covered this in my article on the Fukushima nuclear incident. How, after the quake and subsequent tsunami in 2011, damaged reactors had continued to seep radioactive cesium into the ocean, collapsing the area’s fishing industry. And because of that, Tokyo Bay—once considered too polluted for the seafood trade—celebrated a resurgence.