America, Present Day
Over the course of several days, I’d made significant progress in clearing out my father’s condo but discovered little that unraveled his past. The emotional roller coaster of grief and confusion proved exhausting, as did my father’s well-meaning neighbors and friends. They kept stopping over with covered dishes and condolences. The fridge was stocked with casseroles, but I had no appetite, and nothing new to add to the same old conversation. At least, nothing I’d say out loud.
“...he was a good man...”
A good man with a big secret.
“...now he’s with your mama...”
Did my mother know about his daughter?
The thought grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go. Either they both kept it from me, or it was my father’s secret alone. I didn’t like either possibility, so instead of focusing on what-ifs and imagined scenarios, I took breaks from packing, shoved the emotion down and did something useful—research.
My father’s letter stated he fathered a baby girl, which meant there had to be a record of birth somewhere. On my laptop, I typed “Birth records in Japan 1950s,” then scrolled through results.
The US Embassy in Tokyo kept no records, birth or otherwise. And according to the Tokyo Legal Affairs Bureau, all birth records of non-Japanese citizens were maintained by the city of birth but were not kept permanently. Would the baby have been considered a citizen in the 1950s?
When I looked up from the screen, an hour had passed, and the only thing I discovered was that Japan didn’t have a records system back then. Not in the traditional sense. Families kept track of birth and death in something called a koseki, but without a full name, you couldn’t make an official request.
My heart sank. I didn’t even have the mother’s name, just the nickname my father used for her in the letter—Cricket. What kind of name was that? I scoffed. What kind of name was Hajime? And why had Pops signed the letter with it?
I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my temples. What was I missing? I knew the location of the base, the years of his service—the military. What about those records?
I tapped away at the keyboard. If my father had a child while enlisted, there might be a record of birth on file. I clicked link after link until I found the correct site, the right department, then did a search through their FAQ.
As his next of kin, I could request his records, but not online since his discharge date missed the archival cutoff by two years. There was a wait time of six to eight weeks and several documents were required: his social security number, the branch of service, dates of service and a copy of the death certificate—all of which I had. I got to work.
I gathered the items from my records box, made copies to mail in the morning and was in the process of filing the online fee when Pops’s alarm clock kicked on from his bedroom. He’d set it to remind himself to take his nighttime medication and every day I clicked it off but didn’t remove the reoccurrence. With the alarm set, I’d been forced to enter his room every day to turn it off. It was a way to gird myself to the overwhelming task ahead—sorting my father’s most personal things.
Following the incessant beep, I worked my way through the maze of boxes and bins I’d packed to my father’s room—the only place still untouched—followed the cord, then pulled. The clock’s digital readout blanked.
I stared.
It was time to sort his room, and I knew it.
My gaze shifted from the alarm clock to our family photo album beside it on the nightstand. I picked it up and sat on the edge of my father’s bed. The inexpensive book was falling apart. It was the kind with defective adhesive cardstock covered by clear protective sheets. There we were, our little family of three, faded, yellowed and gummed to the page. And me, the only one left.
Or so I had believed.
The thought kept digging at me. As though my father having another daughter took something away from me. It didn’t, because I had him. There was a life of love documented in every photo. I ran the tip of my finger over a snapshot from Little League. Pops was my coach, both on the field and off, and he used the lessons of the game as schooling in life.
Tired? You push through.
Winning does matter, but how you win matters more.
You’re an exceptional pitcher, solid at second base, but not as quick around the bases. Know your strengths.
Know my strengths... I didn’t even know him.
My mind kept reorganizing what I believed—a good father, a good man—with what I feared—a man who abandoned a pregnant woman and left his child. I didn’t want to believe that. Pops wouldn’t do that. I stared at his photo, close to tears. The truth was, I didn’t know anymore.
I slapped the album shut, knowing it didn’t hold the answers, moving toward his dresser in search of something that did.
Birthday and anniversary cards filled the top drawer of his dresser. A few were from me, but most from Mama—none from Japan. T-shirts filled the next drawer, socks and undergarments in another, but in the last, a manila envelope sat along the bottom. I stared at it, then with a racing heart and careful fingers lifted it out and unwound the circle clasp.
Inside were the Caddy’s title and insurance documents, things I’d need, but nothing more. I refastened the top, placed them in the box marked Records and pushed out a sigh of disappointed relief.
In front of my father’s closet, I put hands on my hips and shook my head, amazed at the amount of stuff he had packed inside. I spied his Tigers baseball jersey, then slid it off the hanger and pulled the shirt on over mine. It hung shapeless, but I was relieved to have found something untainted.
I sorted through the rest of his clothes, checking pockets of each item before I moved on to the next. Most hadn’t been worn in ages and some still had tags. Seasonal sweaters and miscellaneous boxes filled the shelf above. On tiptoes, I reached for a shoebox, knocking over several. Black-and-white images spilled across the floor.
Photos from my father’s time in the navy.
There were pictures of his ship in the harbor and photos of the crew on the deck. Boys, really. Someone’s son away from home for the first time. Someone’s high school sweetheart who promised to write. Someone who looked at the course of their small-town life and wanted more. I flipped the images over to find my father had scribbled their last names: Valentine, Elliott, West, Spain.
What if I posted a search for the names on the navy’s reunion sites? If these guys were still alive, remembered or were reachable online, they could maybe shed some light on what happened. A long shot, but worth exploring if they confirmed what I hoped was true—that my father learned of his daughter long after he’d shipped out and couldn’t get back. Maybe he wasn’t certain the baby was even his?
There were several articles I’d found online that touched on the subject with titles like “Occupation Babies,” “Babies of the Enemy,” “Postwar Pan-pan Prostitutes,” and each raised a different question.
Was the baby a possible ploy to trap my father into marriage? Was the woman he wrote the girlfriend from his stories or someone else? Surely one of his navy buddies would know, but how many of them were left?
And, of course, there were photos of my father. Hi, Pops.
He was the quintessential poster child for the ’50s with his mass of dark, slicked-back hair. His wide grin carried the overconfidence of youth. All he needed was the leather jacket and a motorcycle instead of the uniform. I stifled a laugh through tears. No wonder Mama swooned.
There were sightseeing pictures titled “Hong Kong,” one marked “China’s coast” and several tagged “Japan”—the colorful Goodwill Gate in Yokohama, street vendors peddling wares in Kyoto and a beautiful woman dressed all in white. A kimono. The flesh on my arms prickled.
Did I ever tell you why I was there? A wedding.
You should have seen the bride’s gown.
It was a kimono.
I brought the photo close. The woman’s chin canted down, so I couldn’t make out her face, but her stained lips, the elaborate folds of the layered material and the half-moon headpiece sang of ceremony.
My father really did attend a Japanese wedding?
My arm dropped to my lap, but I didn’t let go of the picture. While I always knew my father’s Great Divide story held grains of truth, I never considered the other stories.
I would now.