Japan, 1957–58
In the course of a month, the forest changed its seasonal wardrobe, shedding late summer for fall. The momiji, maple trees, are now blush red and wear a coat of haughty yellow and burnt orange. I settle for a hand-me-down sweater in gray for warmth. Without the sun’s face, the breeze blows cool through too-thin walls. My six-moon belly, although small, makes the worn cover-up awkward to close. That and it is missing two silver buttons.
Sitting up, I knead between my brows. The room seems to rock, so I lie back and close my eyes. Things have not been right with me since Hatsu’s escape and my capture. The rain’s damp fingers had soaked through my skin and gripped my spirit. My teeth rattled as it shook me. The ordeal cost me my good health. I am wasting away skin to bones.
A labored sigh blows through my weary lungs.
Without Jin or Hatsu, I am all alone here.
Maybe everywhere.
On my side, I lay in a ball, cradling my belly. I have not gained enough weight, and my limbs ache from lack of use. Housemother Sato keeps me bedridden and warmed with special tea to encourage my good health’s return. Her concern is I might miscarry and then she will lose months of fees.
Mine is for my baby.
There has been no word from Hajime. No word from my family. No word on Hatsu’s well-being. She is in my constant prayers. I dream of Okaasan and cry out to her. “Haha,” I scream. But she never answers, and I wake drenched, cold in sweat and burning up in fever.
Chiyo’s chatter and big laugh enter my room. “That girl is Naoko, but don’t mind her.” She spits the words in a pretend whisper to a girl I have never seen. “She thinks she’s married and that her husband will rescue her.” Something else is said but hidden by her cackle.
The new girl glances my way, curious. She’s all angles, high cheeks and a tiny chin. Her long hair is tucked behind her jutted ears, and the side part highlights wide-set, questioning eyes of the deepest acorn brown. Her belly rounds but isn’t ripe. With closed lips, she smiles.
I do not. It is as though I have blinked, and all the familiar faces have changed except for Chiyo.
“Come on.” Chiyo tugs her arm and she is gone, as well.
Months have passed, and the disagreeable climate and autumn foliage now slumber under January’s cool watch. The temperature drops enough to chill my thinned blood with its dry, crisp breath, and freeze mine in a solitary puff. Here, in Kanagawa Prefecture, it seldom snows, but winter is sleepy. I am still sleepy. I lie in bed, waking from an afternoon nap only wanting to rest more. It has been this way an entire season.
My hand rubs at my face, then into my hair. I stroke it back, comforting myself. Tears well up and I bury my face in my hands. Okaasan. Hajime. Someone.
Death would be easy. The difficulty is in the living.
The new girl often visits. Her name is Sora. I sometimes wake to find her sitting beside me, and although I am now like Jin, quiet and not up for conversation, she talks, anyway. I listen through my fog, grateful for the company and saddened by her now-familiar story. Her American soldier denied the baby as his and accused her of sleeping around. Only later did she learn he already had a baby and a wife. Another foolish girl.
Cruel-hearted Aiko delivered and left. Although I mourn for her baby, I’m not sad to see her go. Two others came and went. Sora shares their stories and their stories are the same. This one was reckless in hopes to snag a husband and that one was careful but not careful enough. Neither wanted their child. And with me so weak, I could offer no other option. This weighs heavy on my soul.
And what of my baby? I remember our pact, the one Jin, Hatsu and I swore to one another. I think of Hatsu, her baby somewhere safe, and Jin, her baby’s spirit still waiting to travel safely home.
“Naoko? Naoko, wake up.” It’s Housemother Sato.
My eyes stay shut in hopes she might leave. Bony fingers of death rock my shoulder, the same fingers that pinch tiny noses and dig shallow graves.
The same fingers that will reach for my baby.
That took Jin’s.
“Naoko, up, I have made more tea. You can take it at the kotatsu.”
Her voice grates on my ears. Sharp like glass but transparent. She pretends concern. I pretend to sleep.
She shakes me again. This time hard. It rattles my senses. “Come on. It’s warm and toasty and all ready for you. Does that not sound nice?”
Having my legs warmed under the large blanket that drapes the heated table does sound nice. I roll over, giving in.
“Ah, there we go.” Her eyes are soulless orbs behind wire rims. They narrow with her contrived smile.
I watch her leave, her wool kimono dragging across the floor with each step. Sitting up, I wait for the room to steady and then gather the strength needed to rock to my feet. My brain is mottled and fuzzy, my limbs sore and feeble.
With slow movements, I slog myself to the kotatsu in the main room. Sora, with her high cheeks flushed and pink, sits on the other side. I scoot up close, so my baby bumps the table’s edge, and pull the blanket around my lap to warm us both. It is cozy and comforting underneath from the burner. I stretch stick legs and wiggle numbed toes to aid in circulation.
“You are so pale, Naoko,” Sora whispers. “You are like the yūrei, ghost.”
I am, it is true, except I am still here floating between worlds, finding comfort nowhere. It is a disconcerted state between feeling too much and too little.
Housemother Sato sets down the tea and pours. With one hand, she holds the lid secure, and with the other she tips the pot to fill my cup. Steam swirls, filling my nose with its sweet and grassy scent. I bring it to my lips and blow a cooling breath.
“Drink every drop, yes?” Housemother waits for my nod, then disappears to check on Chiyo. Her labor has begun.
“Wait.” Sora holds a hand up as I start to drink. “I need to ask you something.” She scoots around the table to sit beside me, our legs now fighting for the same limited space.
I set the cup down but keep my hands wrapped around it to soak up its heat.
Sora glances over her shoulder toward the back room where Housemother Sato attends to Chiyo. She tilts her head to listen, then leans even closer. “Is it true you helped a girl escape? That you want to keep your baby?”
This grabs my attention. Did I hear her right? Did I answer?
“Naoko...” With beseeching eyes, she starts again, only slower. “Do you still want to save your baby?”
My lethargic heart pumps a beat faster. I rub a hand through tangled hair. Hair that has not been combed in weeks or longer. I blink.
Her fingers wrap my emaciated wrist. “Naoko, do you trust me? Have I not been a good and faithful friend?”
I nod. She has. Who else has visited my bedside? Brought extra blankets or a cooling rag for my fevered brow?
“Good.” Sora’s eyes brighten and dance like liquid ink. “Then we leave tonight.”
Her words jolt me. “What?” My breath catches in my throat, as though I have not spoken in some time. Have I? I cannot remember.
Sora leans closer still. “Yes. It is perfect. Chiyo only starts labor, by dark she will steal Housemother Sato’s full attention, and we will steal away into the night.”
The gate. I stare at my knobby fingers and paper-thin nails, trying to focus. “Hatsu took the key.”
“And I have taken the new one.” She smiles.
I frown, remembering. “It was wet and dark, and I was lost. I am too weak.”
“Naoko, you are like the blind man who traveled at night carrying a lamp. He did not need it to see, it was lit so others could see him. You still carry the lantern for us all. You never needed it to know your direction.”
My head shakes. Stories, always stories. “His lamp blew out, Sora.” Just like mine. Just like me.
“Yes, you’re right.” She reaches out and places her other hand over mine. “And are we not lucky it did? How else would I have bumped into you?”
Almost a smile. This is all I can manage. Sora and I are indeed friends.
“Please,” Sora says. “I am scared to try alone. Say we leave tonight, and you will fight to save your baby from that demon midwife.”
Demon midwife. My promise to Little Bird. The pact with Hatsu and Jin. My baby’s spirit stirs inside to wake my own. My eyes lift to meet Sora’s.
“Yes?” Sora prods.
I nod.
Her eyebrows drop low and knit together. “Then...do not drink that tea.”