The Woman in the White Kimono Read online

  “I’m almost eighteen.” My voice is high-pitched. This is a disaster.

  “I’m so tired of asking everyone for permission and hearing no. First my lieutenant and now your family.” Hajime stands but then his eyes brighten. “What if we did it, anyhow? We could do it tonight.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get married.” He hoists me up, then pulls my hands tight to his chest. “We could have the ceremony tonight and straighten out the paperwork later. Why not? Then everyone in this village will know who you are, that we’re married and that you’re with me.”

  I drop my gaze to our hands.

  “I love you, Cricket. I want to spend my life with you. Forget everyone else. This is you and me. Your mom supports us, so we work on your father until we win him over. I don’t care if it takes a lifetime, I’ll keep at him, okay? Say you will.”

  My mind spins around details. The idea that Hajime would still try to change my father’s heart warms mine. “But I don’t have a dress.”

  “Wear what you have on.”

  “This is a sleeping kimono!” I laugh, which makes him laugh.

  “Then wear whatever else you’ve got in that suitcase. Just say you will.” His thoughts rush out in excitement. “We can do it here. I’ll get some of the guys to help. Everyone can bring a dish, and I don’t know, I’ll find a pastor, or a Buddhist priest, or whatever you want.” Hajime lifts my palms to his lips and kisses them. “Cricket, I can’t leave you here unmarried and alone. I want to marry you. That is my choice, right? That’s what you said.” He smiles. “Well, I choose you, so marry me tonight.”

  Tears blur my vision to create a hurricane of happy. “Okay, yes.” I burst.

  “Yes?” His smile widens.

  His kiss steals my answer.

  * * *

  It’s late morning and Hajime is off to prepare for the evening ceremony. He has left me with Maiko, the neighbor woman I watched hanging clothes yesterday. She apologized for not coming over, admitting I’d spooked her. She thought I was a spy there to collect land taxes. We sit on her step and laugh about it while making decorations with two others. Grandmother Fumiko, an elder woman who lives two houses over, and Ishuri, a young mother from the next row.

  Ishuri has a new baby boy with chubby cheeks and dimpled fingers. Maiko’s daughter, Yoshiko, watches him and keeps an eye on her little brother, the dirt-covered Tatsu. He runs wild, trailing fistfuls of ribbon from each hand while Yoshiko chases after him, scolding.

  Even cursed, people here are happy.

  “So, babies soon?” Ishuri asks with thin eyebrows arched high. Her skin is tan and pocked, but her bright smile more than makes up for it.

  Since I’m not sure what to say, I only nod and continue to weave the light green ribbon strip through the paper lantern’s handle. We plan to hang the lights from the trees.

  “No. She should wait to have babies.” Grandmother Fumiko nudges my shoulder and gives me a wink. “She should enjoy practicing first.” She’s frail with long silver hair pushed under a threadbare headscarf and is as lively as I imagine its colors once were. “Youth fades soon enough. Look at me.” She laughs, thin cheeks lifting upward.

  Maiko adds, “Grandmother Fumiko was once a spring festival’s Plum Princess.”

  “Now just a prune!” More laughter shakes from her belly.

  “And what of your dress?” Maiko asks, a different lantern held in her lap.

  “Oh.” My mind scrambles for the right way to answer. “My mother’s shiromuku is so beautiful, but...” My shoulders drop. The story is too much to share with new friends.

  “Then wear my uchikake,” Ishuri says, placing a hand on my arm. “Although it is a reception kimono, it would still look pretty on you.”

  “Yes, pretty, but so bright,” Grandmother Fumiko says.

  The three women prattle on about the bold colors and how best to minimize them. I’m touched by their kindness but saddened by its truth. I won’t wear Okaasan’s gown and my family won’t attend. Instead, I’ll dress in a stranger’s garment and celebrate without them. I sit under the plum tree, graced with its beauty and shade, but I am unable to reach its fruit.

  * * *

  Crouched on a tiny stool in Maiko’s bathing room, I scrub, lather and rinse so I can soak in the tub of scented water she has prepared. In Japan, we wash first, then bathe. Hajime still does not understand one is to cleanse the body while the other to purify the mind.

  Maiko and Ishuri will fix my hair and help me with Ishuri’s kimono. It is pretty, though its edges fray and the color has faded.

  Wedding kimonos, with the high quality of fabrics and elaborate patterns, are costly, and most families must rent them. Okaasan’s is owned. Heavy in sentiment and expense.

  With grateful humility, I accept Ishuri’s offer, of course. It would be insulting to wear my own everyday kimono, even if its condition is far superior. Besides, unless I’m wearing Okaasan’s, what does it matter? I will pledge myself to Hajime with open arms and accept this new and different life as they’ve accepted me.

  Today is about heart rather than appearance.

  Maiko discusses what flowers they should add to my hair, but then pauses. “Are you okay, Naoko?”

  “Yes,” I say from the small tub infused with vanilla and spiced plum. The rich, sweet scents fill me with gratitude. They have so little, and yet give it all. I’m undeserving. I cup handfuls of warm water and release, attempting to calm nerves with the sound.

  It is my wedding day.

  A ritual of light and cheer, and although pleased, I am weighed down with want. I want to hear the nonstop opinions of Grandmother as Mother helps me get ready. To have Okaasan’s reassurance and laughter. Kenji’s teasing, Taro’s watchful eye. Even Father’s...

  I sigh and descend farther, so the water rests under my nose.

  I want too much.

  Taro is right, I am selfish. But why does Father have to be so difficult? Deep down, I know it’s his pride, not his nature, which demands so much of me. But does he understand it is my nature, not my pride, which dreams for so much more?

  “Naoko?”

  Hajime’s voice excites my spirit and the women.

  They yell at him in Japanese, “Out! She’s not ready!”

  “Wait, Maiko,” Hajime says. “Wazuka sū fun.” He’s laughing because they won’t listen. “Cricket?”

  I find my feet at once, creating a small tidal wave, and wrap in the bathing towel. Careful with my steps, I move toward their shadows. “Hajime?”

  “Tell them I need to talk to you for a minute. From here, okay?”

  I laugh, then reassure Maiko it is only for a moment. The voices quiet to a grumble and the shadows move away. Except for his—it stands tall and narrow.

  I inch closer and whisper, “Hajime.” My smile drops, and I’m struck with worry. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

  “Everything’s perfect. In fact, I have a surprise for you. An early gift.”

  A gift? I bounce on my toes. His shadow drifts away until it is so small it disappears.

  Inside the wash room, I hold my breath to listen. There are footsteps, more, then whispers and the door slides again. Now, silence.

  Did they leave?

  Should I go out?

  A new shadow appears. Not as tall, not as narrow. The door opens. “Oh!”

  Okaasan!

  Tears begin with an agitation of hands.

  Her hands pull me to her, not caring if I’m wet. She rocks me, her chin over my shoulder, desperate fingertips clutching at my back. My heart beats high in my chest. My words render useless and separate like earth and clouds. How can I hope to express the relief, gratitude, pure comfort I find in her embrace?

  I cannot.

  After a moment, maybe two or three, Okaasan lessens her grip and lea
ns away. Her lips pull in tight. Her eyes, glossy and bright, seem to ask, Are you okay? Are you happy? My answer reflects in mine. I am now. Satisfied, she nods, then wipes under my eyes with her thumbs.

  She pushes out an airy breath and laughs. “Good thing they didn’t do your makeup yet.”

  My heart, high in my throat, blocks all speech. I swallow hard to push it down, still not quite believing she is here.

  “I cannot stay, Naoko. Father is not aware I have come. But I hear your wish on the wind. It calls to me like a dream, and then your Hajime appears, and...” With a long inhale through her nose, she gathers her resolve. “I recognize in my soul it is your destiny to be married—” The explanation is consumed by another quick breath of air. She points instead, to the low table near the kitchen.

  Draped over the silk casing is her shiromuku.

  Now I am a river. I am not deserving of such love. There are no words. Only tears. My throat tightens to control the rising sobs.

  My mother smiles to push back her emotion, then steps to the door. Is she leaving? She opens it only a nudge and motions with her hand. Maiko and Ishuri rush inside, closing it back behind them. Hajime, having delivered his most perfect gift, has disappeared. I love him all the more.

  The women’s eyes shift to the shiromuku, and my stomach drops. Ishuri’s dress. After they’ve been so welcoming, I’d cause insult.

  My neck warms from panic as I try to find the right phrasing. “Ishuri, I—I am...”

  “Do not consider such a thing, Naoko.” Ishuri’s voice is warm, understanding. Her eyes are wide. “Of course you will wear your mother’s shiromuku. Of course.”

  I lower my head in a deep bow, humbled, relieved, overwhelmed by so much kindness. “Thank you, Ishuri,” I say with fruitless dabs at my eyes.

  “The moon is terribly impatient,” Maiko says, her smile beaming bright. “Soon it will drag out the night, so we must hurry. First makeup and hair, then let us get this bride dressed.”

  I look to Okaasan and take her hand in mine. Without asking, she seems to recognize my question.

  “How can I go before I see you dressed? That is too much to ask of a mother, too cruel.” She lifts my hand to her chest and leans into it, so I feel her heart. The steadfast rhythm. “Yes? It beats full and strong. I am here. We have this moment. Heaven does not deny me this, daughter.”

  I take nothing for granted. Although I am not entitled to such happiness, it is given. Heaven’s blessing is capricious at best. I recognize this. So I smile at my mother, at my new friends and fate. Even with the dragon’s breath hot on my neck—a possible child, Hajime leaving for weeks, me here alone—I understand that when heaven drops a plum, you open your hands.

  FOURTEEN

  America, Present Day

  Over the course of several days, I’d made significant progress in clearing out my father’s condo but discovered little that unraveled his past. The emotional roller coaster of grief and confusion proved exhausting, as did my father’s well-meaning neighbors and friends. They kept stopping over with covered dishes and condolences. The fridge was stocked with casseroles, but I had no appetite, and nothing new to add to the same old conversation. At least, nothing I’d say out loud.

  “...he was a good man...”

  A good man with a big secret.

  “...now he’s with your mama...”

  Did my mother know about his daughter?

  The thought grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go. Either they both kept it from me, or it was my father’s secret alone. I didn’t like either possibility, so instead of focusing on what-ifs and imagined scenarios, I took breaks from packing, shoved the emotion down and did something useful—research.

  My father’s letter stated he fathered a baby girl, which meant there had to be a record of birth somewhere. On my laptop, I typed “Birth records in Japan 1950s,” then scrolled through results.

  The US Embassy in Tokyo kept no records, birth or otherwise. And according to the Tokyo Legal Affairs Bureau, all birth records of non-Japanese citizens were maintained by the city of birth but were not kept permanently. Would the baby have been considered a citizen in the 1950s?

  When I looked up from the screen, an hour had passed, and the only thing I discovered was that Japan didn’t have a records system back then. Not in the traditional sense. Families kept track of birth and death in something called a koseki, but without a full name, you couldn’t make an official request.

  My heart sank. I didn’t even have the mother’s name, just the nickname my father used for her in the letter—Cricket. What kind of name was that? I scoffed. What kind of name was Hajime? And why had Pops signed the letter with it?

  I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my temples. What was I missing? I knew the location of the base, the years of his service—the military. What about those records?

  I tapped away at the keyboard. If my father had a child while enlisted, there might be a record of birth on file. I clicked link after link until I found the correct site, the right department, then did a search through their FAQ.

  As his next of kin, I could request his records, but not online since his discharge date missed the archival cutoff by two years. There was a wait time of six to eight weeks and several documents were required: his social security number, the branch of service, dates of service and a copy of the death certificate—all of which I had. I got to work.

  I gathered the items from my records box, made copies to mail in the morning and was in the process of filing the online fee when Pops’s alarm clock kicked on from his bedroom. He’d set it to remind himself to take his nighttime medication and every day I clicked it off but didn’t remove the reoccurrence. With the alarm set, I’d been forced to enter his room every day to turn it off. It was a way to gird myself to the overwhelming task ahead—sorting my father’s most personal things.

  Following the incessant beep, I worked my way through the maze of boxes and bins I’d packed to my father’s room—the only place still untouched—followed the cord, then pulled. The clock’s digital readout blanked.

  I stared.

  It was time to sort his room, and I knew it.

  My gaze shifted from the alarm clock to our family photo album beside it on the nightstand. I picked it up and sat on the edge of my father’s bed. The inexpensive book was falling apart. It was the kind with defective adhesive cardstock covered by clear protective sheets. There we were, our little family of three, faded, yellowed and gummed to the page. And me, the only one left.

  Or so I had believed.

  The thought kept digging at me. As though my father having another daughter took something away from me. It didn’t, because I had him. There was a life of love documented in every photo. I ran the tip of my finger over a snapshot from Little League. Pops was my coach, both on the field and off, and he used the lessons of the game as schooling in life.

  Tired? You push through.

  Winning does matter, but how you win matters more.

  You’re an exceptional pitcher, solid at second base, but not as quick around the bases. Know your strengths.

  Know my strengths... I didn’t even know him.

  My mind kept reorganizing what I believed—a good father, a good man—with what I feared—a man who abandoned a pregnant woman and left his child. I didn’t want to believe that. Pops wouldn’t do that. I stared at his photo, close to tears. The truth was, I didn’t know anymore.

  I slapped the album shut, knowing it didn’t hold the answers, moving toward his dresser in search of something that did.

  Birthday and anniversary cards filled the top drawer of his dresser. A few were from me, but most from Mama—none from Japan. T-shirts filled the next drawer, socks and undergarments in another, but in the last, a manila envelope sat along the bottom. I stared at it, then with a racing heart and careful fingers lifted it out and unwound the circle
clasp.

  Inside were the Caddy’s title and insurance documents, things I’d need, but nothing more. I refastened the top, placed them in the box marked Records and pushed out a sigh of disappointed relief.

  In front of my father’s closet, I put hands on my hips and shook my head, amazed at the amount of stuff he had packed inside. I spied his Tigers baseball jersey, then slid it off the hanger and pulled the shirt on over mine. It hung shapeless, but I was relieved to have found something untainted.

  I sorted through the rest of his clothes, checking pockets of each item before I moved on to the next. Most hadn’t been worn in ages and some still had tags. Seasonal sweaters and miscellaneous boxes filled the shelf above. On tiptoes, I reached for a shoebox, knocking over several. Black-and-white images spilled across the floor.

  Photos from my father’s time in the navy.

  There were pictures of his ship in the harbor and photos of the crew on the deck. Boys, really. Someone’s son away from home for the first time. Someone’s high school sweetheart who promised to write. Someone who looked at the course of their small-town life and wanted more. I flipped the images over to find my father had scribbled their last names: Valentine, Elliott, West, Spain.

  What if I posted a search for the names on the navy’s reunion sites? If these guys were still alive, remembered or were reachable online, they could maybe shed some light on what happened. A long shot, but worth exploring if they confirmed what I hoped was true—that my father learned of his daughter long after he’d shipped out and couldn’t get back. Maybe he wasn’t certain the baby was even his?

  There were several articles I’d found online that touched on the subject with titles like “Occupation Babies,” “Babies of the Enemy,” “Postwar Pan-pan Prostitutes,” and each raised a different question.

  Was the baby a possible ploy to trap my father into marriage? Was the woman he wrote the girlfriend from his stories or someone else? Surely one of his navy buddies would know, but how many of them were left?