In the Woods of Memory

by Shun Medoruma

  I kept running, even after reaching the sidewalk. But after another hundred meters, I was out of breath. After making sure the man wasn’t chasing me, I crouched down beside a roadside tree. I looked over at the apartment building, but no one was on the eighth-floor landing. While keeping an eye on the parking lot exit, I tried to catch my breath. Neither cars nor people came out, but it occurred to me that the man might be watching from one of the apartments, so I entered an alley that wouldn’t be visible from there.

  After checking several times to make sure no one was following me, I returned to the apartment where I lived with my mother. As I reached into my bag to get the key, I was still terrified that the man might suddenly reappear. I was so flustered that it took me a while to open the door. As soon as I got inside, I locked the door and collapsed in the entranceway. Hugging myself in the dim light, I somehow managed to stop shaking. Suddenly, I heard something deep inside my heart. It sounded like a piece of coral, being trampled on and breaking. That’s enough, isn’t it? I muttered to myself. Then I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and pictured the lady who’d given the speech. I sincerely wish that all of you can be happy. As her slightly raspy voice reverberated inside me, tears poured down my cheeks.

  TAMIKO [2005]

  The cases of milk must’ve been heavy. The small, thin girl seemed to be struggling with her load. When I called her from behind, she cringed before her tiny steps came to a halt. Slowly, she turned around, her eyes widening in fear. This confused me because I really hadn’t called that loudly.

  —Sorry for calling so suddenly. Did I surprise you?

  —Uh, only a little, she said in a barely audible voice.

  Staring at the ground, she started to blush. She was extremely shy.

  —Thanks for listening so attentively. That was my first time speaking in front of people, so I was pretty nervous. I know I’m not a very good speaker, so I apologize for being so boring. But having you there at the front really gave me the courage to continue. That was a big help.

  After nodding, the girl blushed even more and kept staring down. What I told her was the truth. My speech had been okay for the first ten minutes, but then the students started to get bored. From the podium, I could see more and more of them starting to talk. The teacher at the back and the one along the side managed to quiet them down, but if it weren’t for them, I’m sure the students would’ ve just left.

  I had agreed to give the speech because my youngest daughter talked me into it. Apparently, she owed one of her former colleagues a favor. But halfway through my talk, I was already regretting my decision. Suppressing my feelings, I pushed through to the end, but I told myself that I’d never do this again. What helped me get through those forty minutes, however, was the girl listening at the front.

  After my speech, I went to the principal’s office with the two teachers. The principal was a woman of calm demeanor. As we were chatting over tea, she told me that her uncle had served in the defense forces and was killed in action, but that his remains were never recovered. After relating how her late grandmother had often spoken about the uncle, she told me that my speech was a good experience for the students. Then she politely bowed. I felt embarrassed since I knew I was inept at public speaking. The two teachers and the principal saw me off at the entrance, and I started walking toward the gate. That was when I saw the girl.

  She was walking along the covered walkway, off to the side. I immediately knew it was the girl who’d been sitting in the front row. I hurried after her and called out when I got within reach. That’s how happy I was to have had someone listen so intently. But when I saw her standing with her head down, I could tell I was being a pain.

  —I guess you’re on lunch duty, I said. Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to express my appreciation. Anyway, thanks for listening.

  When I was about to leave, the girl raised her head and looked at me. She was so nervous that her face had turned red. Just as her mouth opened to speak, shrill voices accosted us from the side.

  —Thank you for your speech!

  —I’m so glad we had a chance to hear you!

  —That was the most moving story about the war I’ve ever heard!

  The voices belonged to three girls who’d been sitting at the back of the auditorium. I remembered them passing notes and talking during my speech, so I was surprised that they were now praising me.

  —I felt sorry for the girl rescued from the cave, said one girl, apparently in reference to the boy who’d been saved.

  —War should always be avoided, right?

  —How’d you go to the bathroom when you were in the cave?

  The first two girls punched the girl who asked the last question in the arm, and then apologized and bowed. The girl who asked the question bowed, too. Their overreaction made me chuckle. Looking relieved, the three girls laughed, too. The shy girl, who’d been pushed off to the side, hung her head and began to walk away. I wanted to find out what she was going to say but didn’t get a chance to stop her from leaving.

  —What happened to that baby put out for adoption?

  The unexpected question felt like cold fingers probing inside my chest. The tanned girl, who looked rather athletic, stared at me with an unconcerned smile. However, her question was difficult, and I couldn’t answer right away. As I searched for the right words, the small, thin girl walked away. The three pushy girls stopped laughing, no doubt sensing my agitation.

  —I’m sorry, I said. I don’t know what happened to him, either.

  The girls nodded in silence.

  —Well, thank you for today.

  —Please come again.

  —Take care.

  Extricating themselves from the awkward situation, the girls dashed off as if they were in a race. Their cheery voices and carefree movements were pleasant, but they also made me feel nostalgic, envious, and a little sad.

  I looked down at the bouquet in my hands and then over at the building to where the girls had run. Then I started walking to the front gate again. As I listened to the lively voices echoing through the schoolyard, I pictured the shy girl with her head down. I regretted that I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk with her. She had alleviated some of the regret I felt about agreeing to give a speech in spite of my poor speaking skills. If only some of my words had reached her, and yes, some of the other students, too.

  After waiting ten minutes, I boarded a bus and returned to the main terminal. The restaurant on the second floor was half filled with bus drivers and tourists. I ordered some Okinawa soba noodles and drank some water while waiting for my food. Suddenly, I felt overcome by fatigue. The air conditioning was so chilly that I thought I’d catch a cold, but the noodles warmed me up. I usually only eat about two-thirds, but this time I gobbled up all of them. Giving the speech must’ve made me hungry.

  When I left the restaurant, exhaust fumes drifted up the stairwell with a lukewarm breeze. I hurriedly covered my nose and mouth with my handkerchief. About five minutes away by taxi was the condo where I lived with my youngest daughter’s family. But there was nothing for me to do at home. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw a bus that would be heading south, so I boarded without much thought. As soon I sat down, the engine started, and within a couple of minutes, the bus departed.

  My sister lived in an institution in the south, on a hill overlooking the ocean. When the roads weren’t too congested, it only took about forty minutes to get there, so recently I’ve been visiting her about once a week. From about six months ago, I started finding her in bed, even during my daytime visits. Before that, she used to watch TV in the recreation room or sit at a table drawing pictures. On sunny days, she used to go outside and stare at the ocean. But then, on about one out of three visits, I started finding her in bed. Before long, that changed to about two out of three. From about two months ago, I’ve been finding her in bed nearly every single time. When I shake her shoulder, she wakes up right away. Then, we usually watch TV or go outside for a walk. Ho
wever, I’ve been sensing a growing frailty in her. She’s been taking medicine for diabetes and high blood pressure, but her caregiver said those symptoms hadn’t gotten any worse. Still, I knew she was moving into a stage of inexorable decline.

  My sister wasn’t the only one. I couldn’t believe I was already in my seventies. Three years had passed since I started living with my daughter. Until sixty-five, I had lived alone in central Okinawa while working at a small delicatessen. But then my knees started hurting, and I could no longer work standing on my feet. Long ago, my husband died at the young age of forty-two in a work-related accident. He had been doing work for the military. After that, I worked day and night to raise my three children. With retirement, I lost my purpose and passion for living. When I’d been working, I didn’t have much interaction with my neighbors, so now that I was retired, I didn’t feel comfortable attending the local senior citizen group’s gatherings. Instead, I spent most of my time confined to my apartment. My youngest daughter noticed this and asked me to live with her family in Naha.

  My daughter had two boys: one in fourth grade and the other in second. Moving to such a lively environment cheered me up. But I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I was in the way. My son-in-law was generous and considerate. As for my grandchildren, the older one had stopped talking so much, but the younger one had grown attached to me. So much so that some of the neighbors called him a “granny’s boy.” Having entered old age in comfort, I knew it’d be selfish to complain. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that I should be living on my own in the north, in the town that I had made my home.

  All three of my children were girls. My oldest married an oldest son and now lived with her husband and his parents. My second moved to Tokyo after graduating from high school. She was now married and living in Ibaraki Prefecture. Apparently, the three of them had decided that I should live with my youngest when I stopped working. That made me happy. So after I quit my job, and started to feel lonely and unsatisfied with life, I made up my mind to move in with my daughter. But had I made the right choice? asked a voice inside me. Of course you did! I muttered to myself as I stared out the window. You’re lucky! Some people don’t have any relatives, and others can’t live with their children, even though they want to. You’ve been fortunate. Expecting too much can only lead to trouble. You have three daughters. Compared to your sister, you’ve been very lucky.

  The face of the girl who’d asked about the adopted baby popped into my head. Surely, she didn’t mean any harm. Even so, the insensitivity hidden behind her carefree expression now irritated me. I told myself that she was too young to know any better, but still I felt annoyed.

  Outside, the bright June sunlight caused every object to cast sharply defined shadows on the ground. The people at the crosswalk seemed disgusted with the heat. As they waited for the light to change, they fanned themselves with their handkerchiefs or their hands. On the bus, the air conditioning had felt good at first but started to wear on me. Now I was wishing for the heat and getting annoyed at the bus, crawling along at a snail’s pace.

  I couldn’t get the girl’s question out of my head. What happened to the baby? All this time the question had remained buried in my heart. Now that that closed door had been pried open, I had to face the unanswered question. I pictured my family waiting for the baby in our dimly lit house.

  When we first heard the baby’s cries, no one smiled. My mother looked like she was going to cry. My father looked furious, with frown lines stretched across his forehead and around his lips. The sliding door to the back room opened, and the midwife came out with the baby in her arms. Gray and covered with slime, the baby cried feebly.

  —Doesn’t look like an American, does it? said my father.

  The comment brought a flash of relief to my mother’s face, and that made me feel relieved, too. But not for long.

  —Must’ve been one of those sons-of-bitches here on the island! my father spit out.

  The look of relief vanished from my mother’s face, and from my face, too. My father climbed down from the front porch, put on the US army boots so ill-suited for him, and headed out the front gate. His comment had pierced my heart like an iron-tipped arrow. If I touched it, blood would’ve gushed from the wound. My mother took the baby from the midwife and called out in a loud voice, as if to encourage herself and my sister:

  —What a cute baby! Now, let’s get him washed!

  Then she started washing the baby in warm water. I could see that she was fighting back the tears as she held the baby in her trembling hands. Suddenly, we heard a noise from the back room, and all eyes turned to the white hand on the sliding door.

  —Oh, my baby! My newborn baby!

  My sister had crawled to the doorway and was reaching out with her slender hand. A smile covered her sweaty face.

  —Don’t move! shouted the midwife. You’ve got to lie down!

  But my sister didn’t seem to hear. Suddenly, the baby started to wail. My mother had been about to hand him to my sister, but the cries seemed to jolt her to some realization, and she pulled the baby to her chest.

  —This is so painful! cried my mother. To have to go through such misery!

  With the baby still in her arms, she broke down in tears. As if on cue, the midwife grabbed my sister from behind and dragged her back into the room. My sister no longer had the strength to resist, but we could hear her feeble cries coming from the dark room.

  —My baby! My baby!

  Moved to tears, I wiped my face with my handkerchief. But the scenery outside remained blurry. The bus turned, and sunlight came streaming through the window, bringing some warmth to my cheeks and shoulders. The glare hurt my eyes, but I left the curtain open and basked in the sunlight. Even now, whenever I recall my sister calling out for her baby, I have trouble breathing. The light burned red against my closed eyelids. It must’ve been to avoid such light that my sister remained confined to the back room. No, it wasn’t the light. She was avoiding the villagers’ stares and whispers—and their groping hands, stomping feet, and wagging tongues.

  Whenever I brought my sister her lunch in the back room, she was usually lying in the corner with a blanket.

  —Sayoko, here’s your lunch! I would call out to the curled up figure.

  —Thank you, she’d say, turning toward me.

  But she wouldn’t get up to eat. I’d leave the door open and hurry back to help my mother in the kitchen, in terror that my father might say something. My two brothers, who still hadn’t entered elementary school, would always whisper. If they ever accidently got too loud, they’d immediately look over to my father, to gauge his reaction. During my time on the island, I lived in constant fear of my father’s explosions of anger. No, that fear continued even after I left. The dirty looks and whispers of the islanders haunted my entire family—not just Sayoko. That’s why there was no respite from my father’s anger.

  Looking back, I could understand why he was so angry. His daughter had been raped by US soldiers, yet he’d been completely powerless to do or say anything. In frustration, he turned his anger against himself. But even though I now understood, I still couldn’t forgive him for taking his anger out on his family just to distract from his own pain. Twenty years had passed since my father’s death, yet when I recalled those days lived in terror, worrying about every word spoken and every step taken, in constant dread of another outburst, the anger welled up from inside me. And when I recalled how he mistreated my sister, I felt something tearing inside my chest, and anger and grief pouring from the wound. Sometimes, the anger was so intense that I became terrified of losing control.

  I could still picture the scene clearly: my father storming out the front gate with the crying baby in his arms; my mother and grandparents scolding my kicking and screaming sister as they held her down; and my two brothers and I huddled together in the kitchen. I could also vividly recall my feelings: the hatred I felt toward the neighbors spying from the gate; the hatred I felt toward my mot
her for scolding my sister; and the murderous rage I felt toward my father for slapping me to the ground after tearing the baby from my sister’s arms.

  At the time, I assumed he was going to dump the baby in the woods or in the ocean. I only heard about the adoption many years later. When I entered junior high school, my mother told me that the baby had been left at an institution in central Okinawa and that later he had been adopted. So the baby was alive! When I first found out, I felt as if the arrow in my heart had finally been removed. But what about my sister? How did she feel? When she heard the explanation from my mother, did she feel the same way? That was unlikely.

  Talking about the baby was taboo in our house. If any of us mentioned it, my sister would fly into a crazy frenzy, and my father would fly into a violent rage. Even my young brothers understood this. The implicit agreement continued up until the present, twenty years after our father’s death. During the summer O-bon festival, the New Year holidays, and the Seimei festival (when the family gathered at the family tomb), I usually stayed with the older of my younger brothers, the one responsible for the family’s gravesite and mortuary tablets. But we never mentioned the baby, even when talking about our sister in detail. But what about my mother and sister? What did they talk about when they were living together? Did they ever mention the child that had been sent to foster care? If the baby was still alive, hed be sixty years old now. That was difficult to imagine. I could only hope he was leading a happy life, wherever he might be.

  I gazed out the window at the sugarcane fields. The plants, still no taller than human beings, were swaying in the wind. In the winter, when their leaves turned silver, it’d be like entering the world of a fairy tale. Now, the plants seemed to be trying to get in some last-minute growth before the extreme heat and dryness of midsummer. I could almost feel their youthful vigor.