Hiroshima Dreams

Come here.” Sally shakes me awake. “You won’t believe this.”

“It’s only nine-thirty; you’re like an old lady, falling asleep at nine. It’s the homework from your new glamorous school; it’s sucking the life out of you.”

I follow her into the living room. “It’s cold.”

“Why didn’t you put your slippers on?”

“I’m asleep.”

“You were asleep. Shhhh.” She motions to my parents’ room, where the news is playing on their TV. “Six months later and they’re still waiting for the election to be overturned and Gore to be crowneD.”

“Presidents aren’t crowned.”

“Shhh.” She points at Obaachan’s room. “Ears like a coyote’s.” Sally sits down at the computer. I shove next to her on the chair. “Look at this site I just found. You won’t believe it.”

On the screen are photographs of men. She clicks on a photograph, and a story comes up telling what the men like to do, eat, what sports they play, what religion they are.

“It’s a menu of men. If you want a boyfriend, you just pick one from the menu, write to them, and arrange a date. It’s limitless.” Sally clicks on man after man. The photos all look like they were taken on vacation: the men in baseball caps or basketball uniforms or holding a fishing rod.

“Why do they all say they like to work out,” I complain. “That’s so boring.”

“It means they’re really buff.”

“Have you written to anyone?”

“You have to be eighteen and have a credit card. I’m thinking of borrowing Mom’s, but then if she gets the bill and finds out, she’ll flip her lid.”

“I thought you liked Walker Briggs?”

“He moved away years ago. I liked Hamden Clark, but then he puked at the school assembly and it was just so unattractive. Boys my age are just . . . uncouth. That’s what Heather and I decided, so we’re only going out with older men.”

“Sally,” Dad calls from the room. “Are you still up?”

Sally clicks the X in the corner. The menu of men disappears. “I’m just finishing my paper.” We tiptoe back into our room. “Night, Mom. Night, Dad.”

“Night, honey,” Dad says.

“Don’t wake your sister,” Mom adds.

“Okay,” she replies, which makes me giggle.

Once in our room, Sally lights a cigarette. She swats at the smoke. I can’t believe that my parents don’t smell it. Maybe they just can’t imagine one of their children smoking.

I know that I should tell on her, but then what would happen? She’d probably never speak to me again.

“Guess what?” she says.

“What?”

“Heather is already doing it.”

“Doing what?”

That cracks her up. She practically chokes on her smoke. “It! With a boy whose dad owns a Cumberland Farms. They go in the back of the store where the cases of sodas and boxes of chips are stacked.”

I was in the back room of a Cumby’s once, when Dad stopped for gas and I had to use the restroom. It was dark, and a liquid was on the floor. I wasn’t sure if it was water or something worse. “I don’t think that’s such a good thing.”

“It is if you’re careful.”

“Are you Doing it?”

“Nah. Not yet.”

“Cigarettes give you wrinkles and bad breath.”

“I choose my own path.”

“You do?” It seems to me she tries to be like everybody else.

“Always have. Always will.”

“Are you really going to write to boys on the computer?”

“As soon as I figure out how.”

“It seems dangerous.”

“What do you know? You don’t care about boys.”

I don’t correct her. I haven’t even told Keisha that there is one boy I do care about, although I’ve never really figured out why. I haven’t told her that when I walk by his house, I feel happy, just because he’s there.

“Go to bed, kiddo. And when you wake up at some ungodly hour, be quiet, okay? Your feet make cracking noises.”

“They do not.”

I sleep fitfully, the way I do before a big test. When I wake up, it is only four-thirty. I grab the flashlight and my diary and begin to write down my dreams first thing, like Obaachan taught me, trying to keep my pencil from scratching on the paper and waking Sally.

In the first dream, Sally was in a smoky room surrounded by boys. Each time I tried to get near her, the smoke got thicker until she disappeared. In the second, Ms. Nga was a cherry tree in full bloom. Her fiancé came along and began to blow a tremendous wind at her. She waved her branches to try and fend him off, but it didn’t help. In a few seconds, all of her blossoms were gone.

I’ve seen her fiancé now, twice, when he came to our school. He sat scowling in the back of the classroom while we played. He had a way of squinting that reminded me of President Bush, like he was so used to telling lies, there wasn’t any truth left in him.

I hear the kettle whistle a second, then stop. I put on my slippers and tiptoe into the kitchen. Obaachan is pouring tea into two cups. “Ah, there you are,” she says.

“Did you hear me up?”

“There is so much snow that the world seems completely still. Quiet can wake you up as surely as noise.”

“I like the snow.”

She peers at me. “We’re worried this morning?”

“I don’t know.” If I tell her about Sally, I am tattling. Besides, how can I mention smoking and “doing it” and men on the computer. “I dreamed about Ms. Nga.”

“A very fine person, your Ms. Nga.”

I sit down and sip my tea. “Sometimes I see things . . . in my mind and . . .” I don’t know how to explain.

“It seems like too much?”

“Yes. Like Ms. Nga. I dream that bad things are happening to her, and when I see her, I feel sad. She’s getting married, but every time she talks about her fiancé, my stomach hurts. And there are other things I see, too.”

“I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What?”

“This . . . vision . . . it can be turned off.”

“But then . . . will it be turned back on?”

“You can also decide that. It is all in your power.”

“Oh.”

“In Tokyo, after a while, I quit the factory and began making clothes. Often, while I was measuring or fitting a dress, the customer would talk to me about her life. She might ask for advice and I would give it to her. Soon, more people began to call on me for advice than for sewing. I became known as Senkakusha, a seer. Some of the women were desperate and called on me many times. It started to make me tired. So, I turned off that flow of thought, and I just focused on fitting and sewing, and I was less tired.”

“Did you keep it turned off?”

“Eventually I learned how to measure it out so that I didn’t give every piece of my energy away.”

“But what about Ms. Nga?”

“Remember when I first met you; I gave you a lotus seed?”

“I still have it.”

“Lotus blossoms are very special. They are a symbol of purity, because out of a dirty pond, they flower. That is why the word lotus is in the mantra I taught you.”

“Om Mani Padme Hum?”

“Yes. Padme means ‘lotus.’ Just as the lotus grows out of the mud, so our mind can grow out of the mud of our selfcenteredness and desire, and be enlightened.”

“Yes.”

“Someday, do me a favor.”

“Of course.”

“Plant that seed.”

“Will it still be good?”

“That is the other miraculous thing about the lotus. The seeds can last up to five hundred years.”

“I’ll plant it.”

“I am very sorry about Ms. Nga. It will be sad if her husband is not a good man like your father.”

“Is there anything I can do? I mean, what is the point of knowing things if there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“I have often asked myself that very question.” Obaachan sighs. “Maybe you can plant some kind of seed in her . . . a seed of doubt?”

“I’ll try.” It seems impossible, although that is what I do when I tell Sally that smoking will make her sick, smelly, and wrinkly.

At school on Monday, I tell Keisha to go on without me and I find Ms. Nga in the music room.

“Ah, Lin. You must be psychic,” Ms. Nga says. “I was just thinking of you. The Junior Philharmonic is having auditions next week. I called your mom this morning. She said it was okay if you want to try out.”

“Is Keisha auditioning?”

“No. I’m afraid not. You are the only student here who I suggested. You and Keisha have become friends? That’s so nice.”

“Yes, she’s fun.”

“So will you? I know it’s scary, but you mustn’t let fear get in the way of your life. I’m hearing such good things about you here at school. You’re doing well.”

“I was wondering about your fiancé, Mr. Kim? Is he Vietnamese, too?”

“No. He’s Korean. Isn’t it funny: Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Thai . . . all such different cultures. Yet, some people look at us and think Asians are all the same, which is like saying the French are the same as the Germans. My parents wanted me to marry Vietnamese, but now they accept him. I guess they figure a Korean husband is better than no husband.”

“When are you getting married?”

“This summer. I will invite you and your family.”

I try to look pleased. “That would be nice.”

Ms. Nga puts her jacket on.

“Ms. Nga?”

“Yes, Lin?”

“Is Mr. Kim . . . nice?”

“He can be nice.” She frowns. “He’s not always so easy to please. Sometimes, he is in a very bad mood.”

“Oh.”

“I guess nice is not a word I imagine when I think of him. Serious, maybe. A little stern. He thinks I am very frivolous, which he disapproves of. Perhaps he’ll be happier after the wedding.”

“Will you be happier after the wedding?” I look at the floor.

“What a question!” She laughs. “I’m thirty-six. My parents are embarrassed that I am still unmarried.”

“But they must be proud that you have a good job and perform in the symphony and have friends.”

“My friends and I have fun together. And I do have . . . freedom.”

“I guess that changes after you get married.”

“Maybe.” She picks up her briefcase. “Goodness, I think that’s the most you’ve ever spoken to me at once. Such interest in marriage. Don’t worry. You have plenty of time for that. Do you need a ride home?”

“No, thank you.” I bow to her, hoping that my seed will sprout, grow tendrils, and blossom into doubt.