Crimson Footprints

by Shewanda Pugh

  “No? Well, can you have Angela pencil me in and get back to me?”

  “Takumi, listen to me and listen closely. I am your father. You know better than anyone that I will not tolerate insolence. We will not revisit this. I forbid your pursuit of this. I forbid this.” He pointed a finger at Deena, and like that, he’d reduced her to an object, a thing, a this.

  “Dad,” Tak’s voice broke with frustration. “Please don’t be this way. If you—if you knew how important she was to me,” Tak sighed. “I’ve always done as you asked, regardless of whether we saw eye to eye. So you must know that I—I don’t do this lightly.”

  “Takumi, listen.” He shook his head sadly. “What would your ojiichan say? What would he think?”

  Tak sighed, thinking of the proud historian and Japanese American that was his grandfather. What would his ojiichan say?

  “Otosan, I can’t help how I feel.”

  Daichi closed his eyes with a sigh. When would the boy learn? Learn that what mattered was not matters of the self, but of the group, of the greater good?

  “You’re my oldest son, Takumi. You are supposed to be my pride and joy.” Daichi’s head was lowered, his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and he was no longer shouting. “When I am gone you’re supposed to head this family. You’re supposed to preserve our history, our traditions, our way of life. You know how important this was to your ojiichan, and how important it is to me.” Daichi ran a tired hand through his hair. “I know I have not been the ideal father. Absent when I shouldn’t be, whether through mind or through body, but such a thing doesn’t negate your responsibilities. It doesn’t negate who or what you are.”

  Daichi shook his head.

  “You cannot be so colorblind as to erase the color from your own skin. You are not as they are. You are of Japanese blood and your history is rich and important and worthy of preservation. Know this before you know anything.”

  Daichi paused with the memory of him and Yoshi learning Japanese on Saturdays, going to Dharma school on Sundays, and all of the ethnic and cultural events—Hana Matsuri, Sakura Matsuri, Tango no Sekku and the Obon street festivals. His father had been adamant about his sons knowing and taking pride in their culture.

  Daichi looked at his son pointedly. “There are things greater than you, musuko. You must ask yourself: this woman that you love—will she follow our traditions? Will she, for example, honor your ancestors at the Obon Festival? Build a butsudan for you, for me, when we are no longer here? Because Christians are not in the habit of fashioning altars to the deceased, no matter how much they’ve loved them.”

  Tak thought of how Deena had been willing to end things between them because he was Japanese. He thought of the lengths to which she had gone to hide who and what he was—lying, skulking, hiding indefinitely. He couldn’t be certain she’d ever embrace their traditions. They hardly ever fought, but when they did, it was because he’d grown tired of lying to his father or of having to keep silent in the background when Grandma Emma called. She was never able to give him a straight answer as to when they could pull the shroud back from their relationship. Perhaps, she’d never intended to. Perhaps, after three years together, he already had the answers to his father’s questions, and simply refused to accept them.

  Tak stared at the floor. “I don’t know what she’d do, otosan. I can’t be sure.”

  Daichi stared at his son. “I’m leaving.” He turned to Deena. “And you are off the Skylife project.”

  “What? You can’t do that to me! You have no right!”

  Daichi chuckled. “I have no right? I have no right?”

  He took a single menacing step towards her. “I have every right. I am Daichi Tanaka. That is my firm. And I began it with little more than the sweat of my palm. That is my son, born of my flesh and blood. You, Deena Hammond, are the one with no rights.”

  Deena shook her head. “But this is personal. You can’t kick me off for—for dating your son.”

  “No? How about because your project is over-budget? Or because your inaccessibility this weekend has caused an estimated loss of 2.3 million dollars as we searched for documents that only you seem to know the whereabouts of? So tell me, Ms. Hammond, would you find any of those reasons more to your liking?”

  Deena closed her eyes. “Daichi, please. I’m begging you.”

  He turned away, unimpressed. “And as for you, Takumi, I will pretend that this never happened and you will do the same.”

  Tak and Deena watched as Daichi smoothed his charcoal jacket, straightened his posture, and sauntered out the door.

  Silence followed.

  “Tak?” Deena said as she watched him disappear into the bedroom. When he re-emerged, he was fully dressed.

  “Tak? Tak, talk to me.”

  Tak shot her a single withering glare, brushed past her and slammed the front door behind him.

  DEENA TORE OUT the door after Tak and barreled down the creaking staircase. She shouted his name in desperation, certain he intended to exit not only her building but her life. She found him partway down, frozen at the sound of her voice, as he waited for her to catch up with him.

  “What Deena? What do you want from me?” He sounded tired, anguished.

  “What do I want?” Tears obscured her vision. “I want you to come back. Why did you leave like that?”

  Tak took a deep breath. “Why do you want me to come back?”

  Deena searched the expanse of his back. “What? I love you. Why would you—”

  He turned to face her. “You love me? Then let’s make this thing solid. When do I meet your family?”

  “Tak,” Deena shook her head. “You can’t—you know I can’t let you.” Deena sighed. “We keep talking about this. It’s not you; it’s…” Them.

  “Right! We keep talking about it. And it’s going to keep coming up.” Tak shook his head in disbelief. “What is your plan here, Dee? To keep me hidden forever? And just how the hell am I supposed to feel about that?” It was exactly as his father said: she wanted more from him than he should ever have to sacrifice.

  “Tak, please. I love you. But you’ve got to understand how things are for me.”

  “How things are for you? This whole relationship has been about how things are for you’!”

  “I know, Tak, and I love you for it. I know this is a strain for you. But this is hard for me too. There are consequences to this relationship for me.”

  Tak stared at her. “And what? You haven’t decided whether you’re willing to accept these consequences, yet?”

  “That’s not the point, Tak.”

  “No, Deena. That is the point. You love me? Then damnit, start acting like it. I mean, what kind of watered down love is this anyway? You love Lizzie and you fight like hell for her. You prowl up and down the streets at God knows what hour, without a fucking thought for yourself. You love your grandmother and fight so she’ll show you an iota of affection!”

  Deena’s nostrils flared. “Is that it, Tak? I don’t show you enough love?”

  Tak shook his head. “You know what, Deena? This is such bullshit. I’m out of here.”

  He turned and barreled down the stairs. Deena rushed after him.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me in the middle of an argument!”

  “We weren’t arguing. I made a statement and I departed shortly thereafter.”

  “What are you now, Daichi? Smug and self-righteous?” Deena shouted as they rounded the last set of stairs.

  “My father’s a wise man,” he said as he reached the bottom of the staircase, “and he knows exactly what he’s talking about—when it comes to you, at least.”

  He cast her a single, hard glare before taking off again. She gaped after him.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” she cried as she quick-stepped to meet his long stride across the lobby.

  “It means what I said.”

  “When it comes to me?” Deena echoed. “No way. You don’t get to make some sweepi
ng statement like that and just walk off.”

  He glanced at her before shoving open the heavy double doors that led to Collins Avenue. “Fine, Dee. You know what it means?” Tak said as their argument spilled into the bustling sidewalk. “It means that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than me. He’s smart enough not to let love derail his values.” He shot her a look of disdain. “But I guess you two are alike in that way.”

  Deena shook her head in desperation. “Tak, come on! You know I love you. God knows I do. I don’t know how to be any plainer than that! If we were in a perfect world, I’d already be married to you.”

  Deena’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Yeah, well, we don’t live in a perfect world,” Tak spat. “So, you need to decide whether you’d be married to me in this one.”

  He jumped into his silver Ferrari, staving off her plea with a slam of the door. Deena watched as Tak started the car, backed out of his space and whipped a furious turn into the street. In their fury, both were oblivious to the wild SUV barreling towards him until it was too late. With the screeching of tires and the folding of metal, Deena screamed as the convertible and the man she loved were crushed.

  RUBY RED LIGHTS pulsed as frantic sirens signaled the severity of Tak’s condition. Within the tight confines of the racing ambulance, Deena bit back the threat of hysteria as she took in his lifeless body, his blood-soaked clothes and swollen blue lips.

  A burly paramedic strapped a pressure cuff about Tak’s arm. He paused, then frowned at the gauge. “I’ve got BP at 100 and dropping!”

  Deena looked in desperation from the thin redhead with the messy ponytail to the thick man with the wire frames and wondered which, if either, could save Tak.

  “90…80…75!”

  The redhead clamped an oxygen mask over his face and paused.

  “Shit,” she said. “We’ve got cardiac arrest.”

  In those moments, she could see nothing but Tak’s dying body and the pale hands as they worked to revive it. An anguished sob tore from Deena’s lips.

  They arrived at Ryder Trauma Center under a hail of red lights and sirens. Men and women in white jackets and scrubs dashed to meet them. A flurry of hands assisted in the transfer, as Tak was hoisted from the ambulance to the hospital. Deena rushed after them blindly, padding through the smatterings of blood leaking from her lover’s body, leaving crimson footprints in her wake.

  The trauma team burst through the doors of the resuscitation room and swarmed on Tak in a fury of needles, tubes, sponges, knives, scissors and white jackets. Nurses worked to cut away his clothes as Deena watched in horror—the fitted tee from Old Navy, a gift from her, faded Levis with that perfect fit, and white boxer briefs, Calvin Klein—the only kind he’d wear. Two IVs went into his arms as a tiny blonde slipped a needle into the back of his hand and retrieved multiple vials of blood. A pressure cuff was strapped to him and tape patched to his chest.

  The EKG screeched to life, indicating that Tak had flat-lined.

  “Call a code!” said a white jacket.

  The hospital’s paging system blared to life.

  “Code Blue, shock-trauma unit. Code Blue, shock trauma unit.”

  “No,” Deena whispered. “Please no.”

  “Code Blue, shock-trauma unit. Code Blue, shock-trauma unit.”

  A chest tube was slipped into Tak. Crimson rushed to fill the plastic hose.

  “God, please. Not him.” Regrets assailed Deena as hot tears streaked her cheeks. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer wrought with grief and desperation. Never would she take him for granted again. Never.

  “Though He causes grief,

  Yet He will show compassion

  According to the multitude of His mercies.”

  Lamentations 3:31-33. Grandpa Eddie would whisper the verse as he sat on the edge of his bed clutching a yellowed portrait of his son, her father, Dean Hammond—dead by twenty-eight at the hands of her mother. And as she stood there facing the frantic siren of the EKG monitor, she whispered the verse over and over, the words pouring from her lips in a mangled mesh of desperation. Tears filled her eyes as crimson flushed from Tak’s body into the plastic container on the floor.

  A white jacket turned to Deena as if seeing her for the first time. “You need to go, ma’am. There’s a social worker in the hall that needs information from you. And she’ll want to contact his family.”

  DEENA THOUGHT ABOUT the life she could’ve had. Her life if she’d tried to stop her mother from killing her father, if she’d stayed with Anthony instead of going home the night he was murdered, and if she’d only agreed to let Tak meet her family. Her stubbornness and their argument had sent him barreling into the street. Her words sent him to his death.

  Deena paced, as if to tread a groove in the floor. Her brain went numb, her mouth dry, her eyes a flood of endless tears. In her mind tires screeched, bones crunched, and there was yelling—so much yelling. Was it her? Was it him? God, was he really pinned by all that metal? Her stomach lurched.

  They’d lived as though they had forever. And there was no excuse. Fate had given her ample warning that time and love were precious. She’d always taken him for granted, up until the last moment. She strung him along, coddling him, humoring him, ignoring his desire to have more than a cloak-and-dagger love affair. In doing so, she assumed that his friendship, his companionship, his love, were all unconditional, irreversible, and timeless. A life without Tak was what she deserved—deserved for never having the guts to love without condition or to purge the demons that haunted her. And so, she stood with an hourglass in hand, and the sand emptied out. Their time together was done.

  DAICHI BURST INTO the hospital like a torpedo. His jacket was unfastened, his hair tousled, and his face a deep red.

  “You!” he shouted. “What’s going on with my son?”

  He grabbed the arm of an orderly near the entrance, who appeared terrified. “Takumi Tanaka! I demand to know his status!”

  Three steps behind him a woman walked with her head lowered. Mounds of salon-styled curls cascaded about her shoulders as alabaster skin sheathed a long and graceful body. It was Hatsumi.

  “Deena!” Daichi spotted her and shoved aside the orderly. He closed the space between them and pummeled her with questions. “Give me a status report. What’s going on? Where is he? What’s his condition?”

  Deena shook her head slowly. “I—I don’t know.”

  “What? Is he conscious? Is he dead?”

  “I—I don’t know!”

  Daichi stared at Deena, his breathing shallow; his stomach nauseated. His thoughts were muddled, incoherent, as he struggled to concentrate. He was losing control. A white-hot panic brimmed beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. Sweat beaded his temples as Daichi clenched his fists, piercing the palms until he bled. The pain was a distraction, and with it, he could refocus. He needed information. With information, he could make decisions, give orders, right this wrong. With information, Takumi would be all right.

  Daichi turned his wrath to the women at the reception desk.

  “Takumi Tanaka. Right now,” he slammed a fist on the desk. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  The gray-haired woman fumbled with a folder. She was slight and mousy, cowering under the fury that was Daichi Tanaka.

  “Right goddamned now!” Daichi screamed, emphasizing each word with a slam. “Takumi Tanaka!”

  He watched as the woman behind the counter disappeared in search of information. With his head bowed and palms flat on the counter, Daichi took a deep breath, allowing only the slightest tremble to escape. His tears were sudden and silent, and brushed away in impatience. Eyes closed, he spoke to his long-dead father.

  “Otosan, I’ve done so many things wrong. I’ve been prideful, arrogant, and abusive. I’ve taken my son for granted. Please help me.” He broke off. Swallowed. “I’m begging you.”

  Daichi inhaled deeply before lifting his head. He smoothed out his suit. No further grief, no mo
re indulgences. He turned to Deena, who sat gasping and trembling, sobbing into her hands. He watched and he marveled. Daichi had seen this expression only once before, such stark bleakness, such wretchedness—on his mother’s face when his father died.

  Daichi extended a hand to Deena and gestured for her to come forward. She looked at him with distrustful bloodshot eyes, searching his face for some sign of his intentions. The embrace was a surprise.

  WHEN YOSHI JOINED Daichi in the waiting room, he took a seat next to his brother and stared at the floor. A one a.m. flight out of Denver, just four hours after he’d received word of Tak’s condition, placed him in Miami at just after nine. It took a single bag of luggage, a six-hour flight, and a rental car going ninety miles an hour to get him there at eleven. But even in his haste, he’d not beaten John, whose flight from LaGuardia brought him in just before midnight.

  Yoshi searched for words. His heart wanted to say one thing and his mind another. Grief crippled his thoughts. They were fractured, incomplete, like a heartfelt letter with pages missing. This was his nephew, teetering on the edge of death. The boy he’d taught to play drums and the guitar against his brother’s wishes. The boy he’d spent summers wrestling with and taken to Disneyland when his brother hadn’t the time. He loved him as if he were Michael or John, loved him more in some ways. He was equal parts Yoshi and Daichi, the better of the two without the worst. He couldn’t lose him. He simply couldn’t.

  “When you prayed,” Yoshi said as tears blinded him. “When you prayed to otosan—did he answer?”

  Daichi shook his head. “No.”

  “He didn’t answer me either,” Yoshi said. He paused. “When we were kids, I used to think that you were invincible. I used to think you could do anything, be anything and have anything. Till yesterday, I think some part of me still thought that.”

  Yoshi brushed away tears, half laughing at a fifty-year-old man who still believed his older brother was all-powerful.

  “I’d give anything to still believe that right now.”