THIRTY-ONE

Japan, Present Day

My earlier research for traditional homes in Zushi had led me to several that were converted into ryokans, traditional Japanese inns. They each sounded lovely. One included a hinkoyi bath, a wooden tub of white cedar where you soaked in steaming water mixed with soothing essential oils. Two had elaborate gardens with reflection pools for peaceful prayer and meditation, and all had the simple futons over tatami mats and personal yutaka kimono robes. That was where I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. Guilt wouldn’t let me.

I sold my father’s Cadillac to cover the expense of travel, not to indulge in luxuries as though this were a personal holiday. So instead of a beautiful traditional inn, I opted for the budget-priced Seijaku Capsule Hotel. Seijaku translated to “silent.” It was anything but. There were constant door clicks as guests ventured back and forth between the community living space, the shared bathroom and the luggage locker room.

The minipods were built around an elongated twin-size bed. They were narrow and long and, at most, four feet high and stacked one on top of another in double rows. Those in the top row were required to climb a small ladder to gain entrance. Inside, there was a ceiling-mounted TV with headphones, a mirror, a single coat hanger, an electrical outlet and a light over the bed. That was it.

It wasn’t for the claustrophobic, for anyone of significant height or size, or for those expecting privacy. The pods were for single occupants and separated into gender-specific rooms of twenty. But, to me, it was still better than a bunkbed at a hostel. I did have my own space and could close the bamboo blind over the see-through door.

It was late, but I couldn’t sleep, so I rested on my back, and skimmed hundreds of neglected emails while my thoughts ran rampant. I was thrilled Yoshio found the traditional house and that records of ownership matched the last name on the marriage affidavit, but what if they didn’t connect to the family? What then?

I adjusted my pillow and propped myself up, then selected several emails to delete, but opened one from the records department instead. Although my father’s military records would arrive by mail, I’d gotten impatient and requested a status update.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. If the company in Yokohama wasn’t a match to the family, and Pops’s records were lost, what else did I have to go on? Worry burrowed like a worm, tunneling right to my core. What if I’d sold Pops’s Caddy and traveled all the way to Japan just to see a vacant house?

Working through the rest of my emails, I stopped on one with “USS Taussig” in the subject line, then glanced below to find several more responses from the military forums. Blood rushed to my head and I sat up taller. I’d forgotten I’d left contact information on the navy reunion site.

The first was from a crewmate that served as an interior electrician but didn’t remember my father. He shared reunion information but cited how most of the crew had passed or were too old to travel.

The next was from a woman whose husband worked within the engine room aboard the USS Taussig during the same time frame as Pops. He had passed, but her brother-in-law also served, and she would reach out to him.

Another shared how their father had served aboard the Taussig, but now suffered from Alzheimer’s. He’d showed his father the photos I’d shared, but he didn’t have any reaction.

There were a few others, but they all had similar stories. And then...

I opened the attachment. The swell in the back of my throat was instant.

There was Pops, standing in uniform, front and center with a semismile. He had his chest pushed out and his shoulders back. A brave young sailor ready to take on the world. Tears welled.

It was just a simple group photograph of the first division from their yearbook, but it was a photo I’d never seen before. It was as though, somehow, I got a piece of my father back. A piece I didn’t know was lost. It hit me in that moment just how much I missed him.

With the overhead light on full, I sat up in my miniature room and sent thank-you emails, overwhelmed that perfect strangers, who didn’t even remember my father, took the time to reach out. And for someone to dig through personal keepsakes and attach a photo from the ship’s cruise book? Such a simple thing and yet it made an enormous impact.

It was just the hopeful nudge I’d needed to carry on with my search. I gazed at the photo of my father. I wasn’t going to let him down, or myself. I wanted answers. Tomorrow, I’d visit the traditional house, question neighbors, and if need be, I’d extend my trip and wait for the person who cared for the grounds.

The house might stand empty, but I wasn’t leaving Japan empty-handed.

I’d risen with the sun and enjoyed the free “well-balanced, body-friendly” breakfast of no omoi, which translated to “heavy.” There were pickles, tofu and even fried cheese and chicken bites. I sampled a little of everything but filled up on rice. Then I secured my belongings in the locker and packed a few things for the day, including my father’s letter. I’d hoped the home’s old address on the envelope might bridge the language barrier should I run into neighbors. At least they’d have a general idea of why I was there.

The walk to Zushi Station took about fifteen minutes, but only because I’d hurried. I’d rushed past teenagers touting surfboards on their way to the beach, wove around locals shopping the outside market and waved away merchants who beckoned obvious tourists like me inside. The Yokosuka line ran every thirty minutes and I wanted to catch the next train. I jogged the last hundred yards and arrived just as it approached the gate.

Once aboard, I found an empty seat and clicked through my travel app’s destination highlights. In Zushi, there was the Enmeiji Temple with a giant ancient red maple tree. I raised my eyebrows. The tree was over a thousand years old. Before, I thought Pops had snapped the photo of a traditional bride at a shrine near Tokyo, but now suspecting the photo was his bride, I needed to consider shrines closer to the base and the girl’s home.

Taura was directly between them, and it, too, listed one. The Yokosuka-shi Taura, also called the forgotten shrine since the woods had reclaimed the bright red gates that adorned the walking path. A giant stone fox waited at the end to reward those that braved the hike. The app cited hundreds of fox statues also adorned the woods, but it didn’t say why.

I marked both locations, then glanced up as the train curved around a corner. Tall, elegant yachts lined up along the pier and small colorful sailboats bobbed in front of the marina. To my right, lofty trees swayed in the breeze, and as we continued the broad arc, rooftops appeared between their branches. Within minutes, we glided into the Higashi-Zushi Station in the Numama district.

While the ride through Zushi was quick, the walk from the train depot to where the traditional home stood would take longer. I didn’t mind, as the surrounding woods were peaceful and, the breeze flapping their leaves like paper, warm.

Pops had once made this trip, and in spirit, I believed he was with me now. As I traveled to the traditional house that time forgot, I remembered...

“I almost turned back twice,” Pops had said. He’d dressed in uniform and fidgeted with his cap, nervous to meet her father—a merchant king. I was nervous just to see the house.

As I neared the top of the small hill, I stopped as I’d imagined Pops had, looked up and squinted against the late-morning sun. She told me I’d know it by the roof tiles.

And like my father, I knew it, too.

A white mist rose from the curved clay tiles as the sun warmed the morning dew and rolled over the edge like the dangling petals of a cherry blossom in an ornamental hair comb. Backlit by the sun, the large, white-walled structure almost glowed. There was a quiet, understated elegance to how it perched atop the hillside. And while the photo Yoshio took was stunning, to approach it in person was surreal. Time had indeed stopped. It was right out of my father’s story.

After Yoshio talked about the architecture, I researched the teahouse style and found the construction fascinating. I couldn’t understand how the interior paper walls could endure everyday use. Wouldn’t they tear? But the rough textured paper was crafted from the mulberry tree, the same trees the silkworms were found in, and were surprisingly strong. And what made it durable was the latticework that held the paper taut. If only I could peek inside. Movement from the side yard caught my eye.

My lips parted.

An elderly woman clipped white flowers from the low, dense foliage. They overflowed from the bamboo basket hanging from her arm. I squinted against the sun, then shielded my eyes but couldn’t get a good look due to her sun hat. I thought the house was empty?

Was that her?

There was only one way to find out. I smoothed out my hair, adjusted my blazer and, with a deep, calming breath, walked toward the house.