The Woman in the White Kimono Page 8

A muddy boy waves from next door. His mother ventures out to collect clothes from the line. She is thin with short hair in pin-curled waves and moves in quick, fluid motions.

  The boy is at most four and dressed in clothes too big. He smiles and waves again, venturing closer.

  “Hello, little boku-chan,” I say more to myself, and return the smile.

  His curious eyes beam. He points to me, then wipes the back of his hand across his cheek, adding more mud there.

  “Tatsu, Tatsu!” his mother calls, a basket of clothes balanced on her hip. “Tatsu, do not bother the woman. Come.” She holds out a hand to gather him near.

  When he turns to run, I strain to glimpse his bare feet. They are filthy. See? Rumors.

  I jump from a distant thunderclap. With the threat of rain, I hoist my travel bag up and drag it to the door, but warped wood sticks. With a lift and steady pressure, it slides. Stale dust dances with the disturbed air. I cough, then stare.

  The main room, furnished with an old futon, is the size of one partitioned space at home. The small bathroom attaches near the back. I peek in and blanch. It’s a porcelain squat toilet. It sits in the floor without a seat. My stomach rolls queasy from the rancid stench.

  A translucent screen of handmade rice paper sections off the kitchen. The back wall consists of a counter with a bowl-sink to hold water. It’s small, dirty and in need of much repair.

  I stand in the middle with my suitcase. What will happen at home if I remain here? What will Father say to Okaasan when he discovers I’m missing? And what of Kenji? My mind jumps from one thing to another, a grasshopper avoiding puddles.

  A burn builds in my belly and coils high in my throat. My eyes prickle from the pressure. No crying, Naoko. I push it down. Spilled water cannot go back to the tray. I consider the dimming sky to calculate the time left before my decision is due. A few hours at most.

  I must choose.

  With a sigh, I set my unopened case on the futon’s edge. The latches release with a simple click-click, and with exaggerated care, I lift the lid to see what Okaasan has packed.

  Sorting through the clothes, I find casual skirts and tops, basic kimonos, sleeping wear and even my slippers. I slip them on and wiggle my toes, happy to have their comfort. I run my hand in the lid’s pocket to feel for tabi socks and...wait. Paper?

  I pull the fabric pocket out, peer inside and spy silk-bordered paper, sumi ink and stone, and two of my calligraphy brushes! Another luxury from home. Okaasan thinks of everything. I contemplate how I’ll use them to pass the time. I place my hands across my middle and consider the probable life I carry. A gift? Yes, a scroll for Hajime that announces his child.

  Boy or girl?

  An old method to predict the sex—that midwives claim with ninety-eight percent accuracy—is to add the mother’s and father’s lunar birth month with the date of conception, then divide by three. If there’s no remainder or if it’s two, then you will have a girl. If it is one, a boy. I do the mental math with the date, then recalculate to be sure, and smile.

  If I am pregnant—a girl.

  To wait out the rain, I set to work on my announcement. If I stay, it will serve as a wedding present. If I leave, it will serve my conscience, forever marking the possibility of this baby’s presence in the world.

  Fat round drops splatter on the deck. First dotting, then building, till nothing remains dry. The sky strobes bright, then darkens again. I concentrate on the clean lines of Shodou, the art of calligraphy, trying to ignore the jagged flashes that rip through the sky. I plan the message—the time frame, his blessing, a girl—and with each stroke of my brush attempt to transfer my spirit so the words contain life.

  The heavens crack and I jump, dragging ink in the wrong direction. This changes the intended meaning. One slip and the straight line of moon has become the prolonged tail of a dragon in the wind.

  I stare as though it stares back. Grandmother’s dragon story whispers from memory.

  There once lived a man who loved dragons. He kept paintings and statues of them everywhere and could talk on and on about the majestic beasts to anyone who cared to listen.

  One day, a dragon heard of this man and his appreciation for his kind. He thought it would surely make him happy to meet an authentic dragon. So, he caught a strong wind and changed his course to visit him in his cave dwelling.

  When he arrived, the dragon found him sleeping. The man woke to see the giant beast coiled by his side with glistening teeth and green scales reflecting in the moonlight, and he was terrified. Before the dragon could make his introduction, the man reached for his sword and lunged, causing the dragon to jump back and slither away.

  Sometimes, when Grandmother told this story, she said the dragon represented liking the idea of something more than the thing itself. Other times, she said the true dragon is our real selves, a truth we must sit with and face.

  I sit with mine. He curls at my feet. We share a silent conversation and I know. It’s him, casting my big and monstrous shadow. The one I feared. The one I sought. The one I stare at even now. Tears build and the back of my throat aches from trying to hold in what I’ve known all along. Hajime holds my heart and I may hold his child, so there was never any choice.

  Only an acceptance.

  For I am granted every wish: my true love, a family of my own and a home to protect us all.

  But just like the man in Grandmother’s story, when faced with it, I am terrified.

  TWELVE

  America, Present Day

  The cottage-style condos in my father’s retirement community were quaint, with the rust-colored stonework and arched entries, and I’d miss the neighborhood, even the neighbors, but I’d miss my father more. The afternoon of his funeral, neighbors and friends linked hands on his lawn as Mama’s old pastor recited Longfellow for Pops’s final send-off prayer.

  “Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,

  “Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

  “So, on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

  “Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.”

  A shared amen, then we released each other and my father’s memory. Pops used the “two ships” saying back at the hospital to reference his significant, although fleeting, first love. But I pictured Mama—the love of his longer life—as the one waiting at heaven’s port to welcome him home.

  “Fair wind and a following sea, Pops.” I whispered the sailor’s farewell, eyes wet with tears. And just then, the breeze kicked up and stirred around me. I stood there a moment, then wiped the moisture from my cheeks and headed inside, where food, drinks and comfort waited.

  A simple service like he had wanted. No fuss, no fanfare, just a few kind words at the church and more than a few toasts at his place after. I drank till my glass was empty, some guests stayed until the bottle was, and then that was that. I sat by myself on his patio and, for the first time in my life, stood alone in the world.

  Except, according to his letter, he had another daughter, so maybe I wasn’t.

  I blew out a breath, took a sip of my brandy—I’d found a hidden bottle stashed in Pops’s pantry—then stared up at the evening sky. Pops’s yard wasn’t elaborate by any means, but it was the kind of place you could prop your feet up and, on a clear night, stargaze.

  The Big Dipper was always the easiest to find. And to its left, the North Star. As the northern sky moved, it held, anchored in position.

  If heaven was an ocean of stars, then I imagined Pops sailed across it, vying for passage through the Great Divide. I smiled at the thought, remembering the story of his first Pacific voyage in the navy where I pulled the image from.

  He said they followed the North Star on the crest of a giant wave. That the groundswell traveled so fast it slammed them into the massive gates that separated th
e west and east. “They rose from the heart of the sea and extended to the heights of heaven,” he’d say. “And with our ship pinned against them, the court of King Neptune himself tested our valor for days.”

  He had so many stories. While I questioned the facts behind most of his tall tales, that one, I learned, held truth. The Great Divide separating east and west was the International Date Line. The tests of valor were the navy’s fraternity-like rituals of initiation. And the official court of Neptune were sailors who had crossed before. It was a ship of boys being boys and my father the youngest at seventeen.

  Seventeen. To have enlisted so young, and then to have fathered a daughter? And to have never told anyone? It didn’t line up. Pops was as fixed and steadfast as the Northern Star. There were no variables. And yet his letter challenged everything I knew about him. The thought squeezed my rib cage, building pressure, which released with frustrated tears.

  Maybe that was why I’d scheduled an estate company to clear out my father’s things. I didn’t want to find out more. I didn’t want anything to change.

  In theory, the recommended service was the perfect solution to manage a stressful and difficult task. They’d auction what held monetary value, donate what didn’t, and I’d pack only what I wanted to keep.

  I leaned elbow to table, eyes fixed on his stainless-steel twenty-five-year commemorative ashtray. That was something to keep. It had puddled from the late-afternoon rain, leaving floating butts in muddied water. Emptying it into the outside bin, I wiped it with a napkin until the bottom engraving shined, then held it up and marveled. Twenty-five years was a long time to stay at the factory, and while the token of appreciation wasn’t worth much, the lifetime of hard work and service it symbolized was.

  Unless my father thought his years of service were wasted.

  The memory of him retelling his “fight for independence” story when we entered the hospital came to mind.

  And while following in my grandfather’s and father’s footsteps to work at the factory was a good life, for me it wasn’t enough.

  It wasn’t enough, and yet he ended up there, after all. He was happy, though, wasn’t he? My throat constricted. Maybe that was what he’d been trying to tell me. That he resented the course his life had taken and regretted what he’d given up.

  At once, the ashtray took on a different meaning—a symbol of what he’d lost. Another daughter and a different life. What was wrong with this one? Anger dipped its toes in the waters of grief and stirred. I caught my pained reflection in the metal surface, then set it down and looked away, but the ripples carried everywhere. What else did I have wrong, and what was I supposed to do with all of this?

  It was me, not my father, who was trapped and tested at the great divide.

  I glanced to my father’s empty metal chair with its red peeling paint, then tipped my glass, swallowed the last bit of burn and stood.

  Another daughter. I was fooling myself if I thought I could leave it alone. I couldn’t unlearn what I’d discovered, so the only way forward was through my father’s past.

  In the morning, I’d call and cancel the estate company, and I would pack my father’s belongings and, by doing so, attempt to unpack his other life.

  THIRTEEN

  Japan, 1957

  I didn’t sleep well, tossing all night on the musty futon while my thoughts battled Baku demons that devour dreams. Did Kiko tell Taro what she had learned? Will Father show up and drag me home? What if Hajime ignores the note I left with the guard and never returns? My eyes snap open with the absurd thought.

  Early light stings them. Blinking to sharpen my focus, I reacquaint myself with new surroundings. Water stains the rice-paper kitchen partition and pools on the uneven plank floor. An invasive knotweed grows up and through the boards. I cringe. I had half convinced myself the house’s dilapidated state was only a figment of my imagination. Instead, it’s worse because it’s worse than I remembered. Everything needs repair.

  The skewed door of the little house rattles. It moves an inch, then hitches. Quick fingers jut through the small opening for grip.

  I jump up startled, ready to run. But where? There’s only one way in or out. It could be anyone. An outraged landlord, a half-crazed neighbor or, worse, my father.

  The door slides open. Tan trousers. Green duffel. Slicked hair.

  “Hajime!” My soul leaps. My feet follow.

  My hug knocks the air from his chest.

  “Whoa.” He laughs, takes a step for balance and drops his bag with a small thud. He kisses the top of my head and returns the squeeze. “Hi.”

  I crumble within his strong embrace. “Hi.” Nothing else spills out. Only happiness. Only relief. Only tears. The night was a long journey with a heavy load; now Hajime is here to help carry its weight.

  He smiles crooked, then pulls me up on tiptoes for a kiss. He hasn’t shaved and his stubble scratches under my fingertips. Relaxing into him, I slide down to stand on solid ground for the first time since yesterday’s arrival.

  “The place is pretty bad, right?” He steps back and looks around. “I planned to have it cleaned up before you...” His eyes lock to my suitcase, then cloud in confusion. “Cricket, what’s going on?”

  “I asked Okaasan to help persuade Father, and she tried, but he—”

  “He kicked you out?” He stares with wide eyes.

  “Oh, no, no, but...” I wring one hand into the other, tell him how I pleaded with Okaasan to help. “And while she listened to me, he did not listen to her.” I explain how Father declared my match to Satoshi without consulting me. “But guess what Okaasan did?” I smile, beaming with pride. “Without consulting him, Okaasan put the choice back in my hands. So here I am.”

  “But your father doesn’t know?”

  I shake my head.

  He rocks back on his heels. “We should go talk with him.” He picks up my suitcase and takes wide steps to the door. “If he finds you missing it’ll make things worse. He’ll never accept me.”

  “Hajime, if I return, I must marry Satoshi.” Stepping forward, I ease the suitcase from his white-knuckle grip. “I chose you. So, there is no going back.”

  His lips part. He scoffs. “What kind of choice is that? You can’t give up your family.”

  “Are you not giving up yours to stay here for me?” I place my bag near my feet and cross my arms.

  “It’s not the same. I’ll miss them, sure, but—”

  “You said it would break your mother’s heart if you stayed. And what about weekend baseball and Sunday meals at your parents’? I know what you will give up, Hajime. And yet you choose to stay with me, so...” I shrug one shoulder, smile hopeful. “I choose you, too, okay?”

  “But it’s not, Cricket. It’s not okay.” A small step back creates distance. He slants his brows. “You can’t lose your whole family over me. You’ll never get to go home? See them again? What about Kenji? That’s crazy.” His hand scrubs his jaw, then he shakes his head. “No way. I can’t let you do it. I won’t. That’s too much. No.”

  “No?” Anger rips free from a tongue too often silenced. “It’s my choice! It’s not Father’s. Not Satoshi’s. And no, Hajime, it’s not even yours.” The declaration rings loud and hangs in the air between us.

  He opens his mouth as though to speak but says nothing. Instead, he looks away and drops his shoulders.

  Mine push back, braced to support what I must say. “Do you not understand?” Hot tears burn behind my eyes. “The choice is made. Okaasan risked everything so I could make it. And I have. So, now you must decide...” My heart pounds in my ears. “If you still wish to marry me. That is your choice. Your only one.”

  “But, Cricket, it’s not that simple...”

  “It is. It is that simple. Unless...” He has changed his mind. Maybe he sees his own dragon, and faced with what he asked for, it is too much. M
y heart drops. A baby. I haven’t even shared that possibility. My knees wobble so I sit on the edge of the futon and focus on my opened hands. On the decision they hold. The one I’ve already made.

  The one he could refuse.

  Hajime crams his hands into his pockets and paces. One step, then another. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We should have their blessing. I wanted them to be a part of things. Plan a wedding, maybe have them talk to my folks on the phone...” He sighs, rakes his hair. It splays in different directions between his fingers. He leaves his hand there, looks around at the dust-covered room. The water-stained wall. The puddled floor. He sighs, winces. “I thought I’d have time to fix this place up. You’d plan the wedding while I’d get our house ready, but...” A curse floats under his breath.

  “Okay.” My breath hitches in my throat. “I understand. You no longer wish to marry me. It is all too much.” A dying has begun. I feel my spirit dim and flicker with the bad connection.

  “No. No, that’s not what I meant.” He sits beside me, angled so we are eye to eye. “Of course I still want to marry you.” With both hands he cups my cheeks, then leans his forehead to mine. “More than anything.”

  “Then what is it? What’s wrong?” I whisper.

  He lifts his gaze to mine. “Remember I told you about the community day on the ship? They have us leaving right after to patrol the Straits. They changed the schedule.” His eyes soften. “I can’t stay.”

  The shock straightens my spine. I expected him here for the week. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Just for two weeks, but... You’re here. I can’t leave you here unmarried in this place alone.” His chin drops.

  His body relaxes forward into my arms, and I wrap my arms around him.

  “Your lieutenant still won’t sign the marriage document? I signed it.” I run fingers through his hair.

  Hajime lifts his head, fixes his eyes on me. “I know, and I got it notarized. I went twice to get it translated, but he keeps avoiding me because the navy frowns on, well, you know.” His blue eyes look away. “None of it matters, anyway, because we need your parents’ approval unless you’re eighteen.”