The Woman in the White Kimono Page 3

  My heart rose high in my chest. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want you to have it. It’s important.”

  I straightened it in my hair and smiled. I did love that scarf. When worn, the red-and-white motif converged to paint the most beautiful color story, but when opened and smoothed flat, according to my father, the scarf’s design told one.

  “A secret one,” he’d say, running his fingers along the hand-rolled hem. Then he’d tell me how China kept the secret for almost two thousand years. He’d point to the floral in the scarf’s design, say they were the same flowers found in the palace garden, where the young empress first discovered something valued more than gold—silkworms.

  “She’d been enjoying tea when a cocoon fell from the sky, and to her surprise, it landed square in her cup.” His eyes grew wide to demonstrate, and I’d giggle when he made the face. Then he’d pretend to fish it out, just as the empress had, claiming it unraveled into a single shimmering thread almost a mile long.

  The royal family, so impressed by the pearlescent sheen, used the delicate filament to weave exotic fabrics to trade throughout the world. And because the rare silk grew to that of legend, the emperor issued an imperial decree to keep the source—the silkworms living within their garden mulberry trees—a secret. “And it stayed that way, until...” Pops would hold up a finger.

  I’d move closer, knowing from there the story would change.

  Sometimes it was a spoiled princess, betrothed to a prince from a faraway land. She couldn’t bear to live without the luxurious garments, so she hid cocoons in her wedding headdress.

  Other times, my father claimed two Nestorian monks used their tall bamboo canes to smuggle out the worms. But my favorite was always the Japanese spies who traveled the long Silk Road of China—which my father said was woven into the scarf’s design. I’d spend hours imaging their 4,000-mile journey while tracing the design’s varied lines.

  If the Caddy was my father’s prized possession, the memories of my mother’s silk scarf with its intricate pattern and hidden stories were mine.

  “You’re quiet again,” Pops said, tugging me from memory.

  I looked over. “I was just thinking about the empress, and how the silkworm cocoon fell into her tea.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Of course. I remember all your stories. There was the one about the ships battling far out at sea, the fight for the Japanese princess...” Sometimes in that one, he’d claim the boy was a Samurai whose clever words were swifter than his sword. Other times, a wealthy prince who could afford to give her everything except the one thing her heart desired. When I’d ask him what that was, he’d smile lopsided and say, “Me.”

  “Oh.” I tapped the steering wheel. “And there was Tea with an Emperor.”

  “Empire.” My father laughed through his nose. “He was a merchant king with a vast trading empire. How could you forget that one?”

  “You have a lot of stories with tea.” And Japan. I glanced at my father. “You could remind me.”

  He favored me with a smile. And in that exact moment, time slid back. To when a larger-than-life man told epic stories to a little girl who loved them. It was a welcomed reunion.

  “Well, I can tell you this much, aside from silk...” He cleared his throat. “Nothing good ever came from tea.”

  FOUR

  Japan, 1957

  I wipe the sleep from my eyes, fighting for consciousness. A glimmer of light steals my attention. Then a fluttering outside the window. A white butterfly fans its shadow wings. They stretch tall and fade into nothing only to flatten wide again.

  My eyelids grow heavy, captivated by the dance. With a deep yawn, I consider the primitive stories of living souls wandering the world in the form of insects. I imagine I am that butterfly, carried on the morning’s breeze. Free, content and happy. I visit Hajime and whisper reassuring dream words about today’s match meeting. We have practiced. We are ready. They will love you.

  “Naoko!”

  I blink against the intrusive light to replace the paper wings of my mind’s eye. My mother again calls from the kitchen. Sitting up, my head spins, so I lie down until it passes. Then I shift and roll my bed and make my way to her.

  “You should’ve woken me, Okaasan!” I scramble to her side, almost knocking into Grandmother in my haste. The salty smell of fresh miso soup pervades my senses. Everyone has eaten and little brother’s putting on shoes to leave for school.

  “Good luck with your boyfriend, Naoko,” Kenji says, followed by puckered lips and kissy noises.

  He howls when I seize him for a punishing pinch.

  “Kenji, go!” Mother scolds, shoving an empty bowl into my hands and pointing me to sit at the table next to Father. “Eat whatever’s left, then we prepare. We have a significant day ahead.”

  Father scowls, blowing out a breath before sipping his tea. The vein at his temple throbs under newly grayed hair. I’m sure I am responsible.

  Grandmother likes to say, “That which is too obvious can make for a quick regret.” What is clear to me is Father allows this first meeting with Hajime for the sake of appearance. What will become evident to him is that I’m allowing the second meeting with Satoshi only to guarantee the first.

  * * *

  My nerves prickle as afternoon preparations for Hajime’s introduction get underway. I’m almost ready, but Okaasan’s not happy with my placement of the traditional white-and-pink ornamental hair comb, so she is redoing it. I hold it in my lap while she rakes a brush through my hair.

  My thumb rubs back and forth across the comb’s smooth enamel, knowing it doesn’t matter if it’s positioned correctly in my hair. Hajime will not know if it’s correct any more than if the garden maintains symmetry in rules of three, or if the tea bowl is for the summer season, but Okaasan does not know this.

  Or does she? Did she somehow learn what I’ve been hiding? Does she fear Father’s reaction?

  I do.

  Grandmother only adds to our nervousness. “That’s no good, see? The hair comb still slants,” Obaachan says with a grunt as she lumbers by. She pretends to have no interest in the preparation but finds reason to pass through and offer opinions.

  They all do. The perfect presentation of the meeting reflects my family’s honor and importance. This is true even if its guest of honor carries none.

  My mind jumps through hoops of rules and protocol. Did I explain to Hajime where he should sit? When he should speak? How much to eat? My pulse quickens. Did I tell him to only take small portions? Hajime has a big appetite; I should have told him. I don’t think I told him. I feel hot. Dizzy. Nauseous. The obi’s too tight around my ribs. Tradition threatens to choke my every breath.

  “There. Yes.” Okaasan pats the sides of my head, then steps back to eye her handiwork. The hair comb’s plum blossoms hang with delicate precision to one side. “This is good. Yes, I think this is good.”

  Father and Taro walk by without even a curious glance. For Satoshi’s meeting, I’m sure they will act differently. Today, I’m invisible. A ghost.

  Okaasan makes last-minute adjustments to my kimono. It’s attractive, but ordinary, unlike the furisode I’ll wear during Satoshi’s visit. That one has sleeves that hang low and wide like colossal, colorful wings.

  “Hmm...still crooked,” Grandmother says from behind us. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing my hair ornaments. “Crooked top on a crooked kettle.”

  My stomach drops. Does she know about Hajime, too?

  Little brother believes Grandmother has foxes under her employ and that they tell her everything they hear. I always make fun, but now I’m not so sure.

  Mother regards the headpiece once more and puffs a breath to dismiss Grandmother’s opinion. She motions for me to follow her into the garden, where the stage is set for the upcoming exhibition. The soft reed mat co
vers moss-laden patio stones beneath the table. The flower arrangement on top comprises a single bloom of white. And the ritual prep for making tea waits at the ready.

  Only Father and Taro are out of position.

  They sit in the garden, backs to the entrance in silent opposition. The smoke from their pipes climbs the air above them, two snakes intertwined along an invisible vine. My insides strum in discord.

  It is almost time.

  Hajime knows the importance of showing up at the precise moment, not a minute early or a second late. He knows to walk along the dewy garden path sprinkled with water to rid himself of worldly dust and to approach the middle gate for official introductions before tea. So, I stand at attention, the sticky heat building against my skin, nervous for that moment when Father and Taro turn, their eyes falling on him, and judgment passes.

  Since the house sits at an angle from where I stand, I can see where Hajime will approach. I keep watch, but there is not enough air for my lungs. My chest aches for trying.

  What was I thinking?

  I should have told them.

  I should have told him.

  “Ah, see? A sign of luck, Naoko.” Mother motions to my sleeve, where a white butterfly takes rest on the pink floral design. Its paper wings ebb and flow with the breeze, and at once I remember the morning’s vision and breathe.

  “I dreamed of you, little butterfly,” I say with a smile, my nerves quieting as I regard my returning friend. “We rode the wind, you and I. Do you bring me promising news?”

  “Maybe you are still asleep like in Chuang Tzu’s butterfly dream,” says Grandmother as Taro helps her into a sitting position on the mat.

  I stay focused on my tiny visitor, holding my arm so it can explore more of the silk fabric. The great Taoist master dreamed he was a butterfly with no thought to his former human self. When he woke, there he was. A man once again. So, was he a man who dreamed of being a butterfly? Or a butterfly, who now dreams of being a man. What is real?

  “Maybe Chuang Tzu fixated on the wrong thing, Obaachan,” I say to Grandmother. “Instead of which is real, maybe it is both. True happiness existing in the in-between.”

  Her lips cinch to retain her words.

  I quieted Grandmother?

  Okaasan reaches up and adjusts my hair comb, deciding that, after all, maybe it is crooked. Grandmother smirks.

  It is a short-lived victory.

  The butterfly spreads wings of white and takes its leave. I follow its graceful looping path until my eyes fill with a new vision. My future.

  Hajime is here.

  The butterfly swoops low to greet him, hovering momentarily as if to whisper a blessing before fluttering past. The butterflies in my stomach are not nearly as graceful. They bump and flit in a wild frenzy.

  Our eyes meet as he nears. He takes in my traditional kimono, swept-up hair and powdered makeup, but his smile drops flat since mine is lacking.

  I am frozen in panic.

  My heart, lodged high in my throat, beats at an impossible speed. Hajime’s clean-shaven with trimmed hair and looks like a movie star, but why did he wear his service uniform? Why didn’t he wear a suit? I didn’t think of this. My oversight will ruin everything!

  His eyebrows draw close, confused by my reaction. He mouths, What’s wrong? But it’s too late to explain. They’ve spotted him.

  Okaasan’s eyes snap from him to me to ask in silence what she dare not speak out loud.

  “Whaaaa...” Grandmother dares for both. “I knew it!”

  Taro shifts at her outburst, darting eyes in our direction. They widen in surprise to draw Father’s curiosity. He turns.

  “What is this?” Father bolts upright, disturbing the nearby tea bowl so it lands with a loud thud-smash and breaks into pieces.

  Okaasan gasps.

  Father points accusatory eyes at her, then shifts them to me.

  My stomach jumps. I drop my chin, knowing I must work fast. “Father, I wish to present—”

  “You will do no such thing.” Father’s outrage is a barb, sharp and piercing.

  My eyes fall to Hajime. His lips form a tight line. He’s puzzled by their reaction but lowers his head and bows. “It’s an honor—”

  “Honor?” Father huffs. “No. No. There is no honor in this.” He pushes past us.

  Taro follows, his shoulder clipping Hajime’s hard as he does.

  I turn to Mother, confused. “Okaasan?”

  “Please, Naoko, say goodbye to your friend and come inside.” She bows in apology and trails after them.

  “Look what you have done.” Grandmother points to the broken tea bowl. Her glare is sharp and cutting. “A jagged split through the center cuts it in half. You can’t put it back on the shelf. It belongs nowhere.” She juts her chin. “See, Naoko? There is no happiness in between. Not with a gaijin.” She spits the word, then mumbles as she leaves. “Foolish, stupid girl.”

  I stare at the broken pieces, then turn to Hajime on the cusp of tears.

  He rocks on a foot as though unsure if he’ll step forward or back. “After weeks of practice you didn’t even tell them?” He removes his cap to run a hand through neatly combed hair. “Why?”

  “I couldn’t.” My voice cracks, as jagged as the split bowl. Tears fall. I move closer, desperate for him to understand. “My silence is what allowed this meeting, Hajime. I wanted them to meet you, to see the face of the man I love and want to marry. This was the only way.”

  “You should’ve told them, though.” He steps back, a hand scrubbing the back of his neck. “Because this way, all they see is the face of the enemy.” His eyes shift to the window where Taro and Grandmother stand watching, waiting, judging. “An American gaijin.”

  The vile word hangs between us.

  Today was meant for happiness. I knew it would be difficult. That Father and Brother would be challenging. Even Grandmother, but I thought, I hoped... I was wrong.

  With open palms, I collapse into my hands. “I’m sorry.” I bite back emotion, not able to bear the shame.

  “Naoko.” There is a pleading in the way my name rolls from his tongue. He peels my fingers from my face, then frees strands of hair from my tearstained cheeks. “No, I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted things for you. For us. Not even for them, I—”

  Knock-knock-knock. We jump oceans apart as Grandmother bangs the glass. She shoos him away with angry, frantic waves. Hajime bows, then walks backward, but stops at the corner of the garden, out of her view. He pockets his hands.

  I am lost in the liquid blue of his eyes. The disappointment they hold. He wanted nothing more than my family’s acceptance. I want nothing more than his. My lip quivers. “Have you changed your mind?”

  The air is still. Birds do not sing. Everything holds its breath.

  He shakes his head. “No, no, but you have to change theirs.”

  “How? They won’t listen to me.”

  “You’re smart and clever, Cricket. Use your voice.” He moves closer. “Make them listen.”

  Grandmother again scolds with her banging, yelling for me to come in.

  We look at each other.

  A silent conversation of wants and wishes.

  Hajime walks backward, mouths, I love you.

  I love you, too, I mouth back.

  He smiles. Nods. Then turns to leave.

  “Hajime!” I plead.

  Grandmother pounds, but I step forward. “I will convince them.”

  “If anyone can, it’s you,” he says, then again turns.

  With a sigh, I watch until he disappears around the corner. A ghost. A shadow. It stretches tall and fades. And then no more.

  Grandmother’s right.

  I am a foolish, stupid girl.

  But I am also a girl Hajime believes is smart and clever and who has a voice. And I
have every intention to use it.

  For I am also a girl in love.

  FIVE

  America, Present Day

  When my father and I first arrived at the hospital, we’d gotten lost. Not hard to imagine, considering the sheer size of the expansive medical campus. It formed an intimidating maze of tall glass buildings that were situated one right after the next, and as the afternoon sun bounced between them, it created a distorted hall of mirrors.

  Once we located our entrance, we walked side by side toward the door, our exaggerated reflections bounding forward to greet us with youthful energy in long graceful steps. But then they shrank in size, slowed in gait, and all at once, eye to eye, we faced our current selves.

  A sick old man. A worried daughter. What we saw. What we were. The constructs of a fun house.

  “The Taussig.” My father stopped short and examined the hospital name on the door. His mirrored image gaped from the other side. “That was the name of my ship. She was a Sumner-class destroyer, did you know that?” He removed his cap and finger combed his hair. It curled from the perspiration dotting along his fevered brow. “Yes, sir, seventeen years old, and that was where my life began. Who would have guessed it’d end there, too?”

  End? I cast a sideways glance as I opened the door, then considered the odd coincidence in name.

  As an investigative journalist, I wasn’t one who believed in signs or fate. I subscribed to the rationality of reason and its either-or language of hard-edged truth. But for the hospital and his ship to have the same name? Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. And maybe that truth, where my father was concerned, spoke not in absolutes, but in the subtle shades of nuanced whispers, and I only had to listen.

  “It was 1955... That was when I joined the navy.”

  As we walked through the lobby, my father strolled down memory lane.

  “It was a year of rock and roll, civil rights and complete unrest.” He dabbed at his brow with his handkerchief. “Rebel without a Cause was the voice of my generation. We didn’t want to conform. We wanted change. I certainly did. And I had to fight for it.”