38 A Thousand Cranes

Lily

 

I hadn ’ t noticed before, the supplies in the back of Chief ’ s truck. But I had wondered why we took such a large vehicle up the tiny road. Now I stood watching as Arturo helped Chief load up two mules with packs of supplies. I was confused and decided to ask Arturo privately, a t the first opportunity, what he thought.

“ Not far now, ” Chief said, pointing at a narrow trail that led from the meadow into the scant trees. He grabbed the rope. “ Go on ahead, ” he told us.

We scampered ahead of him and the mules. “ What ’ s going on? ” I asked when we were out of Chief ’ s sight.

“ Look like we find the end of the road. ”

“ I think we hit the end of the road a long time ago, ” I mumbled.

Arturo shrugged. “ I think is good place for your papa. ”

“ I guess, ” I admitted. “ And those animals? ”

“ The mules? ” He laughed. “ They carry so much! Your papa in good care. You want to carry more? ” I could tell he was giving me a hard time, even if he struggled to get all the words fit together just right.

As we walked, I began to calm. The rough road had wound me up stressed and tight, and now I start ed to relax, uncoil. Breathing in the fresh mountain air, listening to tree sounds and bird noises, noticing small things like the large blue butterflies drifting carelessly by, or holes left by snails in the leaves of wildflowers , t he scent of the forest : t hese things were medicine for my soul.

F rom behind, floating through the air and catching up with us, came a whistle unlike any I ’ d ever heard. It wasn ’ t like the shrill whistles teachers blew in P.E., nor the thin, limited whistles I sometimes attempted. “ Did you hear that? ” I asked Arturo as people often do when they know full well everyone else has heard. We stopped and listened. A bird? An animal? Nothing.

We started walking again, and then came another, same as before, yet different. Arturo ’ s face was thoughtful but unsure, and then it changed—that breakthrough look—the light coming on.

“ The c hief! ”

Before I could disagree, I heard Chief ’ s voice, “ Lily-flower, Arturo, stop and wait for us. ” The voice came from below and behind. We sat on a log and waited. The dogs, which had gone on before us, noticed we had fallen behind and came back. Soon Chief and the mules sauntered into view. Arturo and I made small talk about the weather and scenery while we continued waiting. At last Chief stood before us.

“ Walk along with me, ” he said. “ We are almost to the village. ”

“ Village? ” Arturo asked in surprise and delight.

Astonishment redrew the lines of the normally dispassionate face of Chief. “ You thought all of this was for one person? Good golly , young man. ”

Even as he finished his sentence, voices could be heard ahead. Moments later, just around the next curve, the trail dipped down and leveled off into a wide open area where a cluster of small dwellings stood. A rabbit hopped casually across the trail, and birds swooped back and forth between the trees, but I saw no one. The voices seemed to be children ’ s voices. I looked in their direction. In a small meadow, a group of kids played under the watch of a woman with long, bla ck hair, dressed in bright and flowered clothing.

“ School, ” said Chief.

“ Up here? ” I asked in disbelief.

“ They are Islanders. They needed a new home after their islands were swallowed up in the o cean. They are refugees. ”

I had heard a little about climate refugees in school, but not much. Never had I heard of any living secluded in the mountains. Arturo, for his part, seemed equally shocked, tossing out several exclamations in Spanish.

“ But no time for that now. Lily, your father is here. ”

The dogs had been given permission to run, and an old wrinkled man came to lead away the packmules. Chief stood with Arturo and me.

“ Are you ready to meet your father, Lily-flower? ”

I sucked in my lips. Arturo took my hand and squeezed it. I looked Chief directly in the eye and nodded.

“ Then let ’ s go see him. ”

We took one of the many trails that ran through the mountain community, passing tiny homes along the way. Homes adorned with names or numbers that were carved on plaques, painted artistically, or simply scrawled in chalk across the doorway. At last Chief stopped outside one that said Keeper—why did that sound familiar? It was no more than a cabin . A bed of purple flowers bloomed around it, and it appeared neat and well-maintained.

“ Here we are, ” Chief said. “ Would you like me to go with you? ”

“ Of course! All of us. He doesn ’ t know we ’ re coming, right? ”

“ That ’ s right . I could have told him; our lines of communication here are safe. But it is better this way. ”

Suddenly I wondered if Chief was right. All the self-doubt I ’ d ever had in my life piled up on me like a giant gray whale, nearly squishing the life out of me. I didn ’ t want to see a look on my father ’ s face that said anything but love and acceptance . I’ d heard too many reunion stories that ended badly.

We walked to the door together, Chief in front, Arturo and me behind, side-by-side, still holding hands. Chief knocked three sharp knocks and then called out, “ Yo, James! ”

“ Come on in, Chief. ”

My father ’ s voice? It was; I knew it was. And he called Mr. Morningstar Chief too!

The three of us entered. And there he stood, my father. His back was to us slightly—sort of a side view—and he was lifting a teapot off the stove. I ’ d imagined him taller. I had seen a few old photos, and well, I guess I hadn ’ t taken into account how truly tiny my mom was. But no matter: there he was, my dad! I felt like running to him, yet stayed frozen on the spot like an old statue . I checked to make sure I was still breathing. Arturo squeezed my hand, reminding me of the time on the bike when he thought I might fall off in my sleep. Perhaps he, too, was afraid I had stopped breathing.

“ James, I hope you don ’ t mind. I have brought friends with me today, ” Chief announced in a booming voice.

A brief look of caution entered my dad ’ s face, a slight rise in the thick eyebrows as he turned to face us. It ’ s not personal, I told myself. He doesn ’ t know it ’ s me. He must always be on guard around strangers.

“ Oh, ” my dad said. He regained his composure, “ Tea, anyone? ”

Chief waved his hand. “Nah, ” he said , as my father poured us all water anyway, depositing bags into each cup. Chief sat without being asked and Arturo and I followed his lead , the three of us dropping into a sofa that threatened to swallow us.

My dad bustled around a bit more and finally sat facing us. I studied his handsome face and willed myself to remain calm.

“ How are you, my friend? ” Chief asked.

“ I’ m well, Chief. And how is everything with you and your family? I wasn ’ t expecting to see you again so soon. ”

“ All is well. ” Chief turned to Arturo and me. “ I have come with a special gift. James, this is Lily. ”

Dad crinkled his brow at the odd introduction. “ Nice to meet you, Lily, ” he said. “ And . . . ? ” he looked at Arturo.

I jumped in, “ That ’ s Arturo. ”

“ Oh, ” Dad said to me, “ you ’ re fluent. I wasn ’t sure of your English ability. You look—”

And then he saw something, thought something, I don ’ t know what, but he knew. It all came together and he stopped talking. His chatty guest manners halted, his eyes welled up.

“ Lily? My Lily ? ”

I nodded and before I knew what was happening , he was out of his chair and scooping me up in his arms. I was crying, he was crying, even Chief was crying. Arturo loves to tell the story about how he had the only dry eyes in the house. About how lucky it was that the village was under drought conditions, otherwise our tears would have washed everything away. “ Those Islanders need have to relocate again, ” he would finish, as everyone laughed merrily.

“ But how? Why? Is everything okay? Has something happened to your mother? ” m y father said at last, after hugging and crying and crying and hugging.

“ Yes, ” I assured him. “ Everything is okay—well, sort of— Ma is fine. Don ’ t worry. ”

“ What does that mean, ‘ Everything is okay, sort of? ’”

Already he sounded like a father.

At that point, Chief suggested he and Arturo go meet the villagers, excusing themselves and abandoning the untouched cups of tea.

In the hours that followed, I explained to my father the events of spring and summer: why I left and how, about t he people I had met on my journey, what I had learned along the way. He listened attentively, asking surprisingly few questions about my adventure. Dad seemed more interested in my ordinary daily life. “ What are your best subjects in school? ” he asked. “ Tell me about your friends. What are your hobbies? ”

I told him how I loved writing, hoping he would love me more if he knew how alike we were. I ran to my backpack to show him my journal. As I pulled it out, the string of cranes fell to the floor. His eyes followed it. He looked back up at me and smiled. “ Bring it here, ” he said gently.

I crossed the room and placed it in his hands.

“ I see you ’ ve added yours. ”

“ You . . . you . . . know about this? ”

“ Of course. ”

He fingered the third crane. “ You know who made this one, don ’ t you? ”

“ Ma. ”

He shook his head. “ It was the custom that she should, ” he said. “ And she did. But I sn eaked out one night after she had gone to bed and replaced hers with mine. ”

“ You did? You made this crane? ” I couldn ’ t believe it. Why hadn ’ t she told me?

It didn ’ t seem to bother him. A new animation overtook my father. “ You know the Japanese legend about the thousand origami cranes, right? ”

I nodded yes. Of course I knew. How many times had Ma told me? Sometimes I thought that was why she endlessly folded cranes. I mean, really, how much money could she possibly make selling origami?

He told me the story anyway, and how could I stop him? I would listen to him if he recite d the alphabet to me. I wanted to hear my dad ’s voice, linger in the nu ances, watch his eyes light up. I never wanted to leave.

“ The legend promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane , one of the holy creatures of Japan. There are different versions, like those who say you ’ ll get eternal good luck, others, just the one wish. Some say you have to complete the thousand cranes in one year and that they must all be made by the person desiring the wish. I ’ m not sure which version your mother believed. ”

I laughed. “ I think Ma believes a little of everything. And I ’ m sure that if the legend is true, she will get her wish. Because, believe me, she has probably folded ten thousand origami cranes. Not to mention bats, frogs, cats, and popular cartoon characters. ”

“ Oh, Lily, ” my dad said, hugging me again, “ I’ ve missed you both so much. ”

If Dad had any plans for his day, he never let on. When we finally stopped talking—on account of hunger—we discovered three and a half hours had slipped by. Arturo told me later that he ’ d been by a few times, peeking in the window, or listening outside, and had left again not wanting to disturb us.

After asking if I was hungry, Dad shyly admitted he didn ’ t have much food in the house. He said he ate most dinners at the homes of different villagers and lunched or brunched at one of the three village restaurants. One of these restaurants—where the two of us went for lunch—had only one table, so it wasn ’ t much different than eating in the home of a friend, especially since half the time the owner refused to take his money anyway—which is what happened to us. When dad told the woman who was both our server and cook that I was his daughter, she embraced me and did a little dance. She proceeded to egg Dad into opening his wallet which held no identification but did have a baby picture of me. Which almost started me crying again.

Then Mindy—the woman—called out the door for the whole village to hear, in English and again in another language, that “ Mr. Gardener’ s baby Lily had come to him at last, ” finishing with what can only be described as a screech of joy. Others picked up the news and it spread across the hillside village like wildfire. By the time our steaming bowls of soup sat before us, a crowd of faces had gathered around our veranda table, watching and smiling. A red blush spread across my face, but I too, was happy and smiled as I sipped the broth.

“ Wow, what flavor is this? ”

“ What flavor? Oh, Lily, this is real soup. It ’ s not made from a bunch of extracts. Doesn ’ t your mother cook you real soup anymore? ”

“ Ma only serves the packets. ” There was more I wanted to say. I still blamed Ma for so much. And yet I knew the whole story now. The things she gave up to protect me. But I wasn ’ t convinced she had made the right choice.

Dad was quiet. I wondered what he was thinking. He was thinking of her, I ’ m sure. But what about? The old days? Her decisions after he was imprisoned?

“ Did she write to you? ” I asked.

“ No. ” He shook his head and didn ’ t look up.