TWENTY-TWO

America, Present Day

Travel the world to search but return home to find it.

The quote came to mind because I’d been searching the world online for kanji meanings from the comfort of home. If you could call my apartment home. In caring for my father, I had spent most of my time at his place instead of my own. With his passing, I wasn’t sure I’d remain in the area. One benefit of journalism is you could write from anywhere.

As though on cue, the crooning of an Italian melody drifted up from the waterway below. Although I lived in the Midwest, the downtown featured a man-made canal with an intended Venetian charm. The city even hired an Old World gondolier to serenade passengers on the weekends. I waved as he passed under my balcony. He tipped his hat without missing a note. It was always the same song, “O Sole Mio.” A story of love and sun and beautiful days. For that, there was no translation needed.

Unlike the Japanese symbols I’d been trying to decrypt. Kanji didn’t form sounds, so were they word pictures? One had a line with an overlapped rectangle that looked like a square-rigged sail, and the other two marks resembled swords.

I had to restrain myself from contacting Yoshio over the weekend for an update but couldn’t stop checking my email for his reply. I’d become obsessed, frustrated at having to wait. Had the kanji been digital in the first place, I could’ve pasted them into my browser and translated it right away.

I tried various applications to get a translation, but they didn’t recognize the symbols. I then searched for online kanji charts only to learn there were eighty thousand in the Japanese vocabulary. Even the shortcut graphic showing just the most common contained over two thousand. I had three kanji and not one probable match.

I rubbed at my eyes, tired from staring at the laptop screen, then checked for Yoshio’s email again. Nothing.

With a sip of coffee, I gazed at the crowd walking along the canal below. People crossed the concrete footbridge in droves, like shoals of colorful fish all moving in the same direction.

I never could follow the masses. Instead, I pushed against the current and forged my own lane. Stubborn independence that often got me into trouble. I took another sip of coffee and stifled a laugh. Like father, like daughter. By choosing to marry a Japanese girl in the 1950s, Pops exemplified taking “the road less traveled.”

An irony, since many misinterpreted Frost’s poem. One understanding of the last stanza claims the traveler was reflecting on how, in life, we create fictions, assigning meaning to what was nothing more than a string of random selections. My father crafted stories, but his choices were anything but arbitrary. He elected to marry the Japanese girl, and he chose not to share that part of his life until near the end. They were conscious decisions. And I had to start accepting it.

According to my research, the Affidavit to Marry served as legal proof of eligibility, one step short of a license. It required both parties’, a witness’s and a notary’s signatures, and the family’s signed consent if either participant was under the age of eighteen.

The form carried my father’s signature, the bride’s, an embossed seal and another set of marks next to that. It was either a witness or a parent. But why would the girl’s parents grant permission when they hadn’t even allowed Pops to stay for tea? Pops signed the letter Hajime. Maybe her parents didn’t know he was American. What a mess that must have been.

I typed “translate Hajime to English” in my browser. It meant begin. Then I selected the sound icon to hear the pronunciation. “Ha-je-mit.” I typed “James” and repeated the steps. “Jam-a-se.” I then did the same with “Jimmy,” what Pops went by in his youth. “Ji-me.”

Ji-me. Hajime. It contained his name, but I needed hers. I opened my email and checked again for Yoshio’s response. Finding nothing, I reopened the shortcut kanji graphic and got back to work.

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Light edged the drawn drapes of Pops’s living room window, telling me to hurry before the donation truck arrived. I’d been at his place for hours, loading my car with belongings I wanted to keep and moving the remaining boxes into the garage for easy pickup. I still needed to remove my investigative wall. Then that was it. I’d turn off the lights and close the door of my father’s condo for the absolute last time. But I wasn’t ready to close out his life.

My father died, but I had become the ghost. It was my restless spirit that lingered and couldn’t leave well enough alone. How could I? Like a house, we build foundations from family, and from experience, we construct our walls. But when the ground shifts under your feet as mine had? The father I thought I knew was now someone else. The family I grew up in had expanded to include another. Regardless of your age, that changes you.

It changed me.

Knowing what I did about my father, it must have changed him, too.

I gazed at the oversize map of Japan. Then, with care, I detached the articles of historical interest I’d printed, the snapshots of my father in the navy and the crew, including the picture of his Japanese bride, and placed them all in a large envelope for safekeeping.

I removed the location pins next. And as I did, I retraced my father’s life. From the crest of a giant wave to where he slammed into the Great Divide, to the massive anchor at the gate of the base, to a street of blue where he first saw her, his future, and fell in love.

One thumbtack remained. The coastal town of Zushi, where just beyond the bustling marinas and up a small hill sat the traditional house that time forgot.

Had Yoshio forgotten about my request? I’d been patient through the weekend, and though it was early Monday morning here, it was well into the evening in Japan. I dug out my phone, selected email, placed my finger on “compose,” but caught sight of his reply. Finally.

Dear Tori Kovač,

Wishing you sunshine as the rainy season comes to an end.

I regret my delayed response, but I am happy to provide the following information.

First, regarding the translation you requested. is the family name Nakamura, which means “middle village” and one of the most common surnames in Japan, much like your Jones or Smith in America.

Concerning the property, please know that, in Japan, addresses are distributed in the order homes are built, and due to Zushi’s rapid and continual growth, the postal codes have shifted many times. As you have discovered, the address you provided no longer exists, but according to my source within the Land Ministries department, the home does. I expect to have a copy of the official record with updated address soon.

Please understand, this document of the house will not reveal the family’s name if ownership has not changed hands, as full disclosure on existing land and property is not a legal requirement in Japan. However, paying property tax is, and I have made several inquiries. The name might also be obtained through direct contact with the current owners, and I would be happy to inquire on your behalf should you desire an interview and tour of the home.

I look forward to your response.

Wishing you continued health,

Sincerely,

Itō Yoshio

I paced the room, my mind three steps ahead. The woman’s last name was Nakamura and Yoshio found her house. They might still own it. Or maybe not, but if he approached whoever did, they could offer key information. I smiled to myself, giddy from the idea, but then I was stopped by a thought—an interview. I raked my hand through my hair, leaving it there.

I’d have to present myself under the guise of being interested in the property and its history and use the pseudonym I wrote under. No need to unload my father’s past unless it was required. If it were the same family living in that house, would they even talk to me? What would I say to the woman? How would I even begin to explain? Had she told her daughter about Pops?

I dropped my hand and straightened.

While I’d been digging for truths within my father’s life, I never expected to confront them, nor had I considered what it meant to mine.

I might find my sister.

Would she look like Pops? I had his thick dark hair that curled in the humidity, and although my eyes weren’t as translucent, they were also light blue. Were hers? Unlikely, but she might have his dimpled chin and angular jaw. She might even resemble me.

I paced again. A mindless walk through imagined scenarios and possibilities. While I was playing catch with Pops in the backyard, or running through a sprinkler to dive onto a slip-’n-slide, what was she doing? Did she have birthday parties and go on family road trips? Did she have a good life?

I never went without, because my father as a child often had. As an adult, he’d insisted Mama spend a small fortune every week on groceries. I remembered our pantry, fridge and an extra freezer in the basement always stocked and overflowing because “his” child would never go hungry. She was also Pops’s child, so had she? They might be angry at him and resent me. My jaw clenched. They might have good reason to.

Let them. I unpinned the last item from the wall—my father’s letter. Unlike my father, who looked up from Blue Street and saw his future in the girl’s eyes, I’d stare into hers and hand her the envelope that held my father’s past. Then she’d know the regret in his heart by reading his words. Maybe that was what Pops wanted from me.

I turned the letter over in my hands. Had I known what secrets it contained, how they would reshape and color my view of the world, of my father, would I have opened it? I opened it now and reread his words. In loving you, I’ve never had a single regret. But in losing you? In the how and the why? So many.

I was still waiting for my father’s military records, but those might only offer a confirmation of marriage. I already had the marriage document, the letter, a name and, soon, the address, so what else did I need?

The how and the why.

And that required a ticket. I’d need to go in person, talking over the phone would never work. And if her family no longer owned the house, the new residents might have information that could lead me to them. I had to know. I had to do this for my father and for me, but how? In caring for Pops, I’d lived off my savings and only worked in spurts. A lump formed in my throat as I considered my finances, how bills were stacking up and my savings had dwindled. I couldn’t afford to go.

I gazed at my father’s letter, reread his words, then fixed on the only word that mattered—daughter.

I couldn’t afford not to.