Sachi
December 23, 1941
The sounds in the emergency waiting room were the worst. Sachi could close her eyes to escape the sights, but she couldn’t block out the whimpers of the little boy who sat across from her, holding his bloodied arm. Or the baby wrapped in the blue blanket who cried as the nervous mother bounced him in her arms, whispering, “Shh, shh, shh.” Gurneys with new patients startled Sachi each time they came crashing through the doors.
Papa moaned while Mama held her o-juzu beads and softly chanted a prayer to Buddha. Sachi liked the pretty crystal beads. But her favorite part of Mama’s bracelet was the tiny Buddha etched inside the large center bead.
Nobu couldn’t sit still and paced the floor, back and forth, running his fingers through his hair at every turn. Maybe Mama should let him hold her beads.
The second hand on the clock above the check-in desk moved slowly around the white dial. Sachi calculated how many times it had made its journey around the dial since they’d arrived. Seven fifteen. That would be about 117 times.
What was taking so long? Couldn’t the doctors and nurses see that Papa needed help? Nobu must have asked, “How much longer?” a dozen times already.
Finally, a nurse peeked from behind a door and called Papa’s name. “Michio Kimura?”
Mama and Nobu lifted Papa from his seat and walked him to the door. Sachi wrapped her finger around one of his belt loops and followed behind.
The nurse took Papa’s arm and started to enter the examination room. “Please, wait here.”
Mama clung to him. “But I would like to stay—”
“Please,” interrupted the nurse, “have a seat in the waiting room.”
When the door began to close, Sachi let go of his belt loop. She returned to sit with Mama, Nobu, and all of the other sick people who had to wait in the hard chairs that lined the dingy, green walls.
Mama moved the circle of beads through her fingers, making a clicking noise that was somehow soothing to listen to. Nobu stared ahead, trance-like and still, except for his left foot rapidly tapping the floor.
Sachi watched a roach skittle across the yellowed floor, then went back to watching the second hand, passing the time by creating rhymes with the numbers on the clock. One, two, three. Look at me. Four, five, six. Do this trick. Seven, eight, nine. Papa will be fine …
A lump caught in her throat and tears burned her eyes. She laid her head on Mama’s lap and listened to the clicking of the beads.
“Sachi-chan, wake up.” Mama shook Sachi’s shoulders. “It’s time to go see Papa.”
Where am I?
Crying echoed in the room. Ringing phones. The clacking wheels of passing gurneys. Her eyes focused again on the clock. Nine thirty-five. It hadn’t been just a bad dream.
They followed a nurse down a long hallway where a light flickered and buzzed. The nurse’s starched, white uniform looked like it might crack if she sat down. Her nylon stockings swished, and her white shoes squeaked on the shiny floor. Sachi wondered why nurses wore those funny-looking hats.
They stopped in front of Papa’s room.
“Visiting hours are over, but you may have a few minutes,” the nurse said. “Then you’ll need to leave and return in the morning.”
“Can’t one of us stay with my father?” Nobu asked.
The nurse raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, clearly irritated by his question. “Your father needs his rest, and so does Mr. Ihara in the bed next to him. You may have ten minutes, then I’ll have to ask you to leave. Like I said, visiting hours are over.”
Sachi could have sworn the nurse turned up her nose when she walked away, kind of like older girls at school who thought they were better than everyone else.
When she followed Mama and Nobu into Papa’s room, her heart beat so hard it hurt. She hid behind her mother, afraid to see what her father looked like. The man in the bed next to Papa was Japanese, too. He looked like a ghost and made wheezing noises that made Sachi feel like she couldn’t breathe.
Mama walked to one side of Papa’s bed and Nobu to the other. Sachi stood alone at the foot of it. Her head throbbed when she saw his bandaged head. His blackened and swollen eyes. A fat, bloodied lip. Tubes everywhere. The fluorescent light above cast a blue-white light that gave his skin a strange color she didn’t like.
“Papa,” Sachi said, her voice quivering.
Mama touched his hand and whispered something that Sachi couldn’t hear.
Nobu wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
A man walked into the room. His head was shiny bald, and his eyes were huge behind his thick glasses. A white moustache rested above his slight smile.
Sachi read the badge on his white coat. Dr. Theodore Evans, MD, Neurology.
Mama rose from her chair and greeted him, bowing slightly.
“Mrs. Kimura?”
“Hai … yes,” she said, bowing again.
He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Evans. I’m very sorry about what happened to your husband.”
Mama looked at Nobu. “Please take your sister out of the room for a few minutes so I can talk to the doctor.” She moved her o-juzu beads even faster through her fingers.
Nobu took Sachi’s hand and pulled her out of the room.
“What do you think the doctor will say to Mama?” Sachi asked.
Her brother brushed his bangs away from his eyes, then put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”
After pacing up and down the dim hall for several minutes, they returned to the room. Dr. Evans smiled and leaned over to talk to Sachi. “Your father will need plenty of rest tonight. Maybe you should rest, too.”
Sachi smiled to be polite, but couldn’t take her eyes off Papa.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dr. Evans said before leaving the room.
For a few minutes, everyone watched Papa in silence.
The nurse came into the room like a cold wind. “It’s time to leave now.”
Nobu touched Mama’s arm. “We should go.”
Mama removed her o-juzu beads from her wrist and wrapped them around Papa’s as she softly chanted another prayer.
Sachi rested her hand on his foot—the only part of his body she wasn’t afraid of hurting.
“You rest now,” Mama whispered.
Sachi kept patting his foot as Mama pulled her away. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Papa.”
“Please don’t arrive before nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” the nurse ordered. “And the little girl will need to stay in the waiting area. No one under twelve is allowed in the rooms.”
The words were like a door slamming shut. She looked up at her mother. “I can’t come in to see Papa in the morning?”
Mama clutched Sachi’s hand and pleaded with the nurse. “Please. My daughter won’t be any trouble.”
The nurse’s gaze shifted away. “I’m sorry. Those are the rules. We don’t want Mr. Ihara disturbed. She’ll have to stay in the waiting area.”
Sachi didn’t like this nurse at all. Didn’t like the way she looked down over her upturned nose, like she was better than Mama. Didn’t like the way she was so bossy when she spoke to them. It made Sachi want to scream and cry at the same time.
When Mama pulled her away from Papa’s bed, Sachi held on to the image of her father, even if she didn’t like the way he looked under that strange, blue light. Mr. Ihara’s wheezing followed her out of the room.
After a long and quiet drive from the hospital, they pulled into the driveway. Sachi walked in the front door to silence so huge it pressed against her. She passed the Christmas tree—unlit, gloomy, and dark—and decided it was the saddest tree she had ever seen. Maybe turning the lights on would help. She plugged them in and watched the colors glitter on the tinsel. It didn’t help much.
Mama called from the kitchen. “Time for bed, Sachiko.”
Sachi gazed at the tree, in a trance. Was it really only that morning she had stood there, looking at presents? It seemed like days ago. Really, like another lifetime, when Papa asked her if she wanted to go to the park.
“Did you hear me?” Mama called again.
“Yes, Mama.” She walked up the stairs, wondering if she would ever return to that life.
In the darkness of her room, all of the sights and sounds of the park flashed in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut to block them out, but the scene played over and over. The boys kicking, calling Papa a Jap. Cigarettes tossed on him. His body, curled on the ground. The colored boy with hazel eyes.
Shadows of leaves danced on her ceiling like fairies in the moonlight. She made three wishes: that Papa would be all right, that it had all been only a dream, and that they’d never be called Japs again.
After a time her body grew heavy. Then light. Floating, drifting into sleep, a dream.
She stood in her front yard, and followed Papa’s stare to a sign where words were scribbled.
Dirty Jap! Go Home!
Patches of color were tossed all around the yard. She walked onto the brown grass, bent to see, to touch. Silk. No! Ripped and scattered, pieces of her kimonos—pinks, purples, yellows, and blues—were bright against the dead grass.
Then she saw the tiny body parts. Her geisha dolls! Broken. Scattered. Delicate white hands still clinging to broken fans. Their porcelain faces, cracked and dirtied by the muddy soil.
She turned to find Papa. But he was gone.