Japan, 1957
The sun sails high and proud above ridge clouds, a white fluffy ocean with small cascading waves. A perfect afternoon in the little village, and yet, I sense the coming storm. I twist my hands, one inside the other, and squint at the sky. It’s been a long week, and I face another one without Hajime.
Everywhere I turn today, I see Grandmother’s omens. It’s only old-folk wisdom and nonsense, but last night a spider inside the house escaped my capture, so I couldn’t release the bad luck it carried. And this morning my zōri sandal’s band snapped, which signals pending misfortune.
I try to ignore the ominous signs and concentrate on the children who gather around my rotting stoop. Every day more and more arrive for impromptu English lessons. Including Maiko’s children, Tatsu and Yoshiko.
It’s taught in school, but no one in this village attends, just as Kiko warned. My heart breaks, but it builds on my resolve to change things. Because Hajime teaches me conversational English instead of the memorized lines we learned in class, the children will gain the advantage of both.
When I first met Hajime, we both spoke English, but couldn’t communicate. It was Saturday, day of the Earth, and Kiko and I had traveled to Yokosuka. I spotted him crouched as though trying to pry up stones from the road. Such a silly American boy! Kiko and I inched closer, amused. But when he looked up, I gazed into eyes as blue as the stones the street was named for.
“Arigatōgo,” he said.
Thank you? Kiko nudged my arm, laughed.
“You are welcome?” I said in Japanese.
“Ah...” A slow smile with wide, deep lines crept across his tanned and angled cheeks. “English?” He rubbed at his dimpled jaw. “Watashi wa hanasenai...English?”
He can’t speak English? What? Kiko and I again exchanged looks. In Japanese I told him, “You cannot speak Japanese, either.”
That time, he laughed, but it was obvious he didn’t know why. “Man, if you’re not a living doll.”
“No,” I said in English, showing him my hair. “I am a girl. Naoko.”
Tatsu, Maiko’s son, tugs at my leg and drags me from memory.
We’ve been at it for over an hour. “Really...re-lee,” I say, articulating how to form the word with my mouth. Japanese language does not have an L. It doesn’t exist, and this is the source of much confusion. “Rea-la-la-lee.”
“Ri-lee,” Tatsu says, and beams.
I pat his head. “Yes, good.”
Although much younger, he reminds me of Kenji. He has the same bright eyes and long lashes. His hair sticks up from a cowlick and he is always moving. The comparison makes me ache for home. And I know my little brother also aches for me.
I asked Hajime how he snuck Okaasan here without Grandmother or her fox spies knowing.
His grin split his face. “I found a fox spy of my own,” he had said. “One who likes baseball cards and misses his big sister.”
Now I miss them both.
Maybe I could visit home in secret again? Watch as Kenji returns from school? I had done it once before. If I leave now... I stand.
“Arigatō, gozaimasu, Sensei.” One after the other the children bow.
I return the gesture, overwhelmed by how grateful they are for my time. But I’m the appreciative one. Time is a stubborn creature that delights in goading you. When happy, it sprouts wings and flies. When waiting, it drags through thick mud with heavy feet. The children help me to trek through the terrain.
“You’re a good teacher, Naoko!” Maiko calls as she gathers dry clothes from the line.
Tatsu races to her, chanting, “Ri-lee-Ri-lee-Ri-lee!”
I dip my chin with a head bow. Am I a teacher? The thought is a seed, planted for later. Right now I’m desperate for the familiarity of home, even if only from a distance.
The train rumbles under my seat as I watch the landscape rush by in splotches of green. Between my finger and thumb I roll lavender sprigs plucked on my way to the station. It’s the leaves that hold the fragrance, and I crush their scent to my skin before holding it under my nose to inhale its comfort.
Such a day. A sigh escapes, my hands drop to my lap and I consider my sandal. I had to fix the strap again before I left. An additional unlucky sign. You’re not supposed to mend your clothes before you leave the house. All this good luck–bad luck is silly.
Standing, I wait until it’s safe to exit the train, almost tripping for want of my family and home.
The familiar trees along the road welcome me with high waving branches. The sun flirts between them, still warm. Still happy. The caw of a black crow catches my ear, and when I look up, I catch his eye. I turn away. It’s another forecast of misfortune.
These omens stalk me.
I stare at my feet as I walk, trying to concentrate hard on pleasant thoughts. I think of our wedding and the night of love that followed. Of this baby, the one I now hope to carry. Of Hajime’s ship and how it is only seven days from carrying him home.
Gravel kicks up on the road ahead of me under the weight of a car. A car? Although Japan’s economy grows, vehicles, even among the prosperous, are rare. Father has yet to consider a purchase. I move to the side, allowing its passage, then stop.
It’s a funeral coach.
Not the elaborate miya hearse with the gilded gold-and-red shrine on the rear, but the modest van used to transport a body to the funeral home. My thumbs tuck in each fist as a precaution. Thumb in Japanese translates to parent-finger, and hiding it serves as their protection. A superstition, but this one, even I do not challenge. The menacing sensation that has soaked my skin all day now drowns me.
I watch it pass in the direction I just traveled from the train. Then turn back with dread. Where had it been? Over the small hill there are just three homes.
One of them mine.
My stomach drops.
Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s our dear neighbor’s widowed mother-in law. But maybe it’s...
Blood rushes my ears, creating panic in its pulse. My feet begin to move. One step, then another and another. Faster and faster they push off to propel me forward until I’m running. The sandal with the homemade fix frees itself. I scoop it up and continue running.
At the top of the hill, I stop, breathless, with one foot bare. My heart slams against my ribs. There’s my house, undisturbed. My eyes dissect every detail. The landscape...tended. The door...inched open to catch a cooling breeze. The quiet... I’m sure Grandmother enjoys her tea in the garden.
Yes, maybe everything is okay, after all. There are tire indents near my feet. I bend to the earth and scoop the loose gravel in my fingers. There is no maybe in their direction. I trace the tread marks and follow them home.
The steps I took between the top of the hill and my front door do not exist in my memory. I see only flickers in my mind’s eye, images that will haunt me for the remainder of my life. I blink and float through time. I’m on my porch. A white lantern hangs to signal death. I’m at its door. There’s a wailing. Sobs. Who?
I want to hold my ears, make it stop, make this go away. Two shadows move inside. Grandmother and Okaasan would be the only ones home. Taro? Father? Oh, not Kenji. Please not... Shaky fingers fumble the door the remaining way open.
My father turns.
His eyes are red under heavy, downcast brows. They’re swollen with emotion. When they fall on me, his lips twitch with surprise, then press tight to suppress it. The crying comes from Grandmother. She’s hunched into her hands and shakes with grief.
I bend and step from my remaining shoe, then run around them both. More flashes to burn into memory. The empty kitchen. The empty bedroom. The other bedroom. The garden?
My bare footsteps pound the floor. Grandmother calls my name, but I’m gone, running the outside path in slow motion. Rocks and dirt dig into my unprotected feet. I turn my head in every direction.
“Okaasan?” Her name spills from my lips and catches against my throat. I scream the childhood nickname: “Haha!” It’s sharp. Piercing. Desperate. Where is she? Is she alone grieving? Did Taro have an accident? Please not Kenji.
I sprint the grounds, blinded by tears, searching. The empty tea garden where I presented Hajime. The Zen garden to the east where Okaasan and I shared secrets. The small shrine to the west. Oh! My hand slaps my gaping mouth. It’s already covered in white paper to keep out the impure spirits of death.
Taro. I spot him walking with Kenji from the hill. I am paralyzed by the sight of them. They are together. Grandmother and Father are inside.
Blood rushes my head. I may faint. There’s not enough air. “Haha!” Her name rips from my lungs.
I don’t remember entering the house again. But here I am. Empty kitchen. Obaachan’s tea sits untouched and dishes are out. Empty bedroom. My parents’ sleeping room smells of patchouli and sandalwood. It’s earthy and damp, like the garden after a rain. A small table filled with flowers. Did I see these before? Father’s outside, walking to the boys. It’s all in slow motion, underwater.
Hands to face, Grandmother stands in the middle of the main room. Her shoulders shake. Her hair’s in disarray. The bun at the nape of her neck slants to the side, and strands have worked free to rest in peculiar directions.
As I inch toward her, her fingers drop and hover near her chin. Her eyes sag with grief. My lips quiver, trying to form the question my ears can’t bear the answer to. Grandmother nods before I can ask.
This isn’t true. I shake my head. No. No. No.
“Her heart—”
“No!” My arms fly up to wave away her words.
Stepping away, I scream at her. “No! She’s not dead!” She can’t be dead. My hands claw through my hair and pull. I tug hard, ripping from the roots to transfer the pain, needing to feel something else. Anything else. This isn’t happening.
Grandmother speaks, but I’m too far inside myself to hear. I rock on my heels...back and forth, my head buried in my arms, my heart bleeding out. How could she be dead? A sharp gasp of air sucks in. I release violent sobs out. I am shackled with them and fall to my knees, distraught.
My tongue pushes to the roof of my mouth as my throat constricts to keep screams from escaping bloated lungs. Grandmother steps closer. I clutch her legs and weep into them with loud cries and rivers of tears. She strokes my hair, but I am inconsolable.
My mother is dead.