I Will Not Always Be Here
Once Obaachan tells me the story of Hiroshima, I need to know more. It is like a dessert I can’t stop eating. I am hungry for the past.
I check out books at the library and read more about the bombing: the buildings that were there and then not, the people who disintegrated instantly, leaving their shadows on the sidewalk, the fabric designs on the women’s dresses that scorched onto their skin, creating embeddings of flowers and winding vines and geometric patterns.
I read of the thick foliage that erupted from the rubble, “atomic” flowers and vines, the mutations of plants and insects; strange life out of death.
There were seven Catholic priests from Germany. Their church was destroyed, but their house was left standing. None were injured or developed the illnesses associated with radiation: the anemia and cancers that would visit even the children of survivors, which makes me worry about my mom. The priests credited the miracle to the beads of the rosary, their habit of prayer.
Then there were the Hiroshima Maidens, women whose faces were disfigured by the bomb. Ten years after the war, they came to America to be operated on. They became celebrities here.
Now, sometimes, I have a nightmare that I am running down burning streets calling for my mother. I stop everyone I see and ask the question of all history: How can we Do this to one another?
No one answers me, though; they just point into the distance, like the answer is far away and I have to keep chasing it.
When Obaachan and I take our daily walks by the river, or along Benefit Street, where the night-colored buildings have the names of their owners and the dates they were built, I ask questions. “How did you survive without your mother?” I can’t imagine being without my mother.
“At first, I was in shock. I tried to find someone to help me. Instead, I kept finding those I needed to help: a burned woman, a man crushed by a fallen shed, a lost child. Eventually, I worked in a building where the wounded were taken, trying to hand out what little medicine there was, bandaging wounds. There is a saying. ‘Nothing is more whole than a broken heart.’ It sounds strange, but it can be true. Before the disaster, I was like any young girl: vain, attached. I worried that the other girls had nicer clothes than me. I wondered if I was pretty. After, my only thought was how I could help others. And when I did, my heart was filled, and I forgot about myself and my own sadness. I think this is what you will do. Help others.” She smiles. “And in this way, you will forget about your shyness.”
My throat swells. I will never forget my shyness. “Then what did you do?”
“I left Hiroshima, finally. The doctor at the hospital where I worked became ill, and he went to Tokyo for treatment. He allowed me to accompany him and I found work there, in a dress factory. But I missed working in a hospital. I would have liked to be a nurse.”
“Why did you leave Hiroshima?”
“Because of the shame. Those who survived the bomb were known as Hibakusha. To be a Hibakusha was to be ashamed. To be treated with shame. Those with the scars from the bomb—keloids they were called—could not hide that they were Hibakusha.”
“But it wasn’t their fault.”
“To be a victim is to feel it is your fault. But I didn’t have visible scars. Many also left because they said the ground was still poisonous, which it was. Others left because of the river. It was said that the ghosts of the dead hovered like lost clouds over the water, calling out the names of their loved ones.”
“Did you see ghosts?”
“I never returned to the river. After the war, Japan became a country of peace. We never invaded or attacked anyone again. That is remarkable. A whole way of being, centuries of warrior behavior, changed completely. The hunger we had for territory transformed into an appetite for peace. This was the good that came from the war for Japan. And I met your grandfather in Tokyo and my friend Shizuko. It was two years before I realized that your grandfather was also Hibakusha.”
“You didn’t tell each other?”
“No. But one day, he found my box, the one you asked me about.”
“What is in it?”
“The ashes of Hiroshima. I took them to remember my mother, hoping that maybe some bit of her was in there. And now your grandfather’s ashes are in there, too. Hiroshima has become a beautiful city. There is a Peace Museum and monuments.” She stops in front of a clothing shop and looks at a pink coat hanging in the window. “Time now for the present.”
I try to think of the present. It is never very exciting, except that Ms. Nga has recommended me for a private school where she leads the orchestra. I was accepted to the school, but my parents are waiting to hear whether I will receive a scholarship. If I don’t, I will not be able to go.
“Do you think I’ll go to the new school?” I ask Obaachan.
“You are full of questions today. This must be the year of talking. Yes. You will. I am certain.”
How are you certain? I want to ask, even though I know the answer. When things come to you in the center of your being, you know they are true.
“I hope it’s nice there.”
“Are you worried?”
“It’s just . . . I’m used to my school. People leave me alone.”
“It is time, I think, for you to not be left alone.”
“But what if the kids at the new school aren’t nice?”
She sighs. “I was very frightened to come here. I could barely get myself onto the plane. I think that if there was a slide down through the sky, back to Japan, I would have taken it. Like that one in the playground you used to like to go down.”
“Is that why you stayed in your room?”
“I was tired, and once I got here I realized that I would never return to Japan and had sadness. I hadn’t considered that. I had thought of this as a visit. But I walked into your apartment and realized that this would be my final place. I would not again see my country or Shizuko. But, would I give up this wonderful time with you and Sally?” She shakes her head. “Never.”
The words final place give me a chill. “How old are you, Obaachan?”
She laughs. “Younger than the wind. Older than your mother.”
But I know that she was fifteen in 1945. I do the math in my head. “You are seventy,” I say.
“Am I? Yes. A new century.”
“Remember how everyone thought the computers would shut down?”
“Yes, but since I know nothing of computers, I didn’t understand.”
“Computers are easy. If you learn to use one, you could e-mail Shizuko every day.”
“I’m too old a horse.”
“A horse?”
“To learn new tricks.”
I smile.
“What? Did I get it wrong?”
It would be impolite to answer. “You must miss her.”
“I speak to her every day at the same time. We have wonderful conversations. This morning, she told me of an old woman who came for a potion to make her husband love her, but Shizuko was able to show her that she was better off without her husband, that another love would arrive if she would let go. Shizuko told her, ‘Drop like a petal and the wind will carry you.’”
“Did you talk on the phone?”
Obaachan taps her head. “Thoughts are just as loud as words and they travel faster. That’s how well we know each other. Let’s go in.”
“Here?”
“Such a pretty coat would look so nice on you.”
The idea of having a gift makes me feel shy. I’ve never seen Obaachan buy anything, ever. I follow her into the shop. “Let’s get something for Sally.”
“But she is only wearing black these days,” Obaachan says.
I try on the coat. It is a rich material and fits me perfectly. The price tag says two hundred dollars. “It’s too much,” I say, wanting the coat.
Obaachan smiles. She pulls out her wallet. “Now we will have to find something for your sister.”
We look in many shops until we find a black sweater with a beaded collar. It will look beautiful on Sally with her long hair.
“That was fun,” Obaachan says. “I was poor for so long that I’ve never gotten used to money. I forget to spend it. I regret not buying more things for your mother when she was a child.”
“Did she want a lot of things?”
“I thought so, then. Here. Let’s throw a coin in the river like your father does.” We walk the short block to the river. Obaachan hands me a nickel.
“Dad believes in luck.” I throw my coin, wishing that time could stop and everything stay the same.
“May you shine at your new school, and your shyness float away from you like a leaf on a stream.” Obaachan tosses hers high into the air, then watches it flip into the water. “I will not always be here,” she says.