Sachi
September 20, 1942
Suddenly my heart
Shivers when I catch a glimpse
Of Mama’s cold glare
The question was like a slap in the face.
Mama wiped her nose with a handkerchief and asked again, “What would Papa think of you now?”
The words pulsed in Sachi’s ears. What-would-Papa-think-what-would-Papa-think-what-would-Papa-think.
Mama glared at her, and she returned her mother’s stare. Like chess players Sachi had seen at the park, she waited for her opponent’s next move, while anger, hurt, memories, and loss swirled and expanded inside, threatening to explode.
Mama moved. Turned the lamp on. That was all it took to break Sachi’s gaze and light an emotional fuse.
Tears wet her cheeks as her words sputtered. “What … would … Papa think of me? What would Papa think of me, you ask?”
The fuse spent, she exploded. “How can you ask me that question? What would Papa think? I’ll tell you what he’d think. He’d be proud that I do not judge Sam for what his father does. He would not believe in this eta baloney.”
Nobu threw his curtain back and grabbed Sachi. “Stop it! How dare you talk to Mama like that!”
Mama didn’t move. Said nothing.
Sachi tore away from him and darted toward her mother. She tapped Mama’s shoulder and asked, “Do you hear me? The real question is, what would Papa think of you right now?”
Nobu pulled Sachi away and shook her. “I said, stop!”
She punched Nobu in the stomach. “Leave me alone! You’re not Papa, so quit acting like you are. It’s all your fault, anyway. If you hadn’t told, none of this would have happened.”
He held her tighter and she couldn’t break from his grasp.
But she continued her fight with Mama. “Answer me! What would he think of you? I’ll tell you what. He would say you are no better than the Americans who look down on the Japanese. The same Americans who put us—”
When Mama whipped around, Sachi knew she’d gone too far. Never had she seen that look in her mother’s eyes. Was it rage or pain reflected there? She wasn’t sure, but wished she could take back some of her words. Rewind them like the motion pictures Papa used to take her to see.
“Come on, Sach,” Nobu said, pulling her into his room. He shut the curtain and whispered, “See what you did? I told you to stop.”
“See what you did,” she said, pushing away from him. “If you hadn’t said anything about Sam, Mama would never have found out. And how could she say that about Papa?” She threw herself onto Nobu’s bed. “Papa would be on my side. I just know it.”
He sat next to her. “You know Sach, I don’t know what’s more important to Mama. Respect, or saving face. She thinks if we don’t respect her, we don’t love her. And right or wrong, she was raised to believe that if we associate with certain people we will lose face. You know what that means, don’t you?”
She propped up on her elbows. “Lose face, lose face, lose face. I’m sick of hearing it. What about the dishonor in judging someone? Treating them differently because of what their father does for a living? That’s no better than judging us because we look like the enemy. I don’t care what Mama says, and I don’t care if she loses face. I’m not giving Sam up.”
Nobu pressed his hands against his eyes before running his fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. Stay friends with Sam. We’re leaving for Arkansas in five days anyway.”
It wasn’t fair. Sachi dropped her head into Nobu’s pillow and tried to muffle a cry that shook through her body.
After several minutes, she felt the warmth of her brother’s hand on her back. “I think Mama has gone to bed. We should, too. We’ve got a long day of packing tomorrow.” He pulled Sachi up. “Come on, off to bed.”
Dragging her feet, she pushed through the curtain into the room where Mama lay silent. Early evening twilight cast a dim light below the front door, and muffled voices from surrounding stalls drifted into their room. She wasn’t ready for sleep, and she sure wasn’t ready to crawl into bed with Mama. But there was nowhere else to go.
She gently lifted her pillow, hoping not to disturb Mama. She knew her mother wasn’t asleep—her breathing did not hold the rhythm she’d grown accustomed to since sharing a bed. What did Mama think about as she lay there? Was she still angry with Sachi? Did she still wonder what Papa would think? No matter. The last thing she wanted was to get Mama started again.
As she slowly pulled her pajamas from under the pillow, her heart pounded so hard she wondered if Mama might hear it. She undressed in the darkening room and laid her clothes on the table next to the bed. In the lonely stillness, she buttoned her pajama shirt. Her fingers trembled as she anticipated the return of Mama’s anger.
But there was only quiet. Maybe silence was worse than rage.
She lay down and waited for the sound of Mama’s slumber. Long, slow breaths. A gentle snore. Instead, she felt Mama’s warm body, tense and unmoving. Inches apart, yet a world away.
Sachi clung to the edge of the bed, sad at the thought that Mama disliked her as much as she disliked Mama.